Omnia Sol Temperat
by aghamora
Summary: During the fall of 1831, Inspector Javert reluctantly accepted the help of an informant. These are the events that transpired. - - Éponine/Javert.
1. I

**Summary: **During the fall of 1831, Inspector Javert reluctantly accepted the help of an informant. These are the events that transpired. - - Éponine/Javert.

**Note: **This begins approximately eight months or so before the barricades, and follows a somewhat altered timeline of events. The premise for this story was inspired partly by the relationship between Agent Cho and his CI Summer on _The Mentalist_. Its title comes from a piece of choral music called "Omnia Sol Temperat (Let Your Heart be Staid)", composed by Z. Randall Stroope. It includes elements of the book, musical, and 2012 movie, and takes place in a universe that's kind of a combination of all three.

I promised myself a long time ago that I would never publish a fic until it was finished – because the majority of things I've published in the past I _didn't_ finish – but at this point, I'm beginning chapter sixteen of this story and have got the rest of it pretty much mapped out, so I think it's safe to publish it now. As I did with Terminus, this will be updated once a week on Sundays and not any more frequently, because all chapters of this story so far are 4k+ words long and I don't really think there are any duds in terms of plot or character development.

I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it.

**Rating: **Though not for a while, the rating of this story will, in time, change to M. Keep that in mind.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing you recognize.

* * *

_**Omnia Sol Temperat**_

"The sun warms everything."

* * *

**I**

* * *

Like all things, undercover police work had its benefits and drawbacks.

Its benefits being its almost unparalleled success in catching criminals and bringing them to justice, and its capability to find the elusive villains who lurked undetected in the shadows, running from the law whenever it even began to encroach upon their operations. Working undercover with criminals who did not suspect a thing also fostered somewhat of a sense of security in a profession that normally had little safety or security. Furthermore, crooks that could normally never be caught could be caught with incognito police work, and as such, it was an invaluable way for the Prefect to succeed in further upholding the law and purging the streets of Paris of its many felonious inhabitants.

Its drawbacks being some that one Javert, Inspector First Class, of the Paris Police was experiencing at the present.

His original plan had been to disguise himself and follow the Patron-Minette street gang without their knowledge as they raided houses, then follow them back to their headquarters and oust the location of said headquarters to his colleagues so they could ambush them in the night and arrest the pathetic lot of them. However, being discovered by the men he was trailing was certainly not part of his plan, and Javert realized that perhaps he had underestimated the Patron-Minette – or perhaps, he thought, overestimated his ability to blend in. The Inspector was not overly concerned about his situation, though, and for two reasons: one, he had had another officer following him from a distance in case he encountered some kind of trouble, and two, the Patron-Minette had a reputation for theft and assault, but murder on their part was not nearly as common – though he could not be entirely certain of their plans for him. So when they dragged him back to their headquarters, inadvertently informing Javert's subordinate of its location in the process, and tied him to a chair, he did not blink or beg for mercy in the way he was sure the men wanted. He only sat there and waited for his officers to arrive and spare him this mild inconvenience.

It was taking his men longer than he'd expected, however, and in the meantime his captors were taking immense pleasure in beating him, obtaining retribution for all the times he'd arrested them or foiled their heists. The Inspector bore it in silence and said nothing, though his nose was bloodied and he was sure he would likely have one if not two black eyes in the morning.

"We've finally got you, you son of a bitch," one of the men – a tall, dark, young man cleaning a knife – sneered at the Inspector. The others had left the room for a moment, leaving the two by themselves, "And mark my words, we intend to make your death as slow and as painful as it can possibly be."

Javert glared at him and hissed, "Do your worst, boy."

The young man, who went by the name of Montparnasse, advanced menacingly toward the Inspector, cut open one of his sleeves, and brought the blade to his exposed skin, "Very well then, Inspector."

Javert closed his eyes and held his breath as the other man cut into his flesh, dragging the knife along slowly, torturously, relishing in every display of pain he made. He ground his teeth together so hard that it hurt his jaw and gripped the arms of the chair with so much force that his knuckles paled, but otherwise did not show even a hint of emotion on his face. He struggled to keep totally silent as pain shot through his arm when Montparnasse pushed the knife deeper into his skin, cutting a gory pattern across it as if it was some kind of canvas and he the artist. Streams of blood flowed freely from the wound, trickling down the sides of his arm and pooling on the floorboards beneath them. However, the Inspector steeled himself against the agony. This was nothing to him; he'd felt much worse pain countless times before and this fool's torture techniques were amateur at best. He'd been in the police force his whole life and had numerous battle scars as a result: a partially severed toe, a bit of his left earlobe missing, a long jagged scar that ran almost half the length of his chest from a wound that'd nearly killed him. Pain was no stranger to him and at this point in his life – hardened and cold as he was – it was just another feeling, no more so than happiness, sorrow, or anger.

He was brought out of his thoughts, then, when he found his eyes drawn to a movement of the shadows near the open door, as if someone was approaching the room with footsteps as quiet as a ghost. He thought for a moment that it was one of his men, but when the person stepped into the light, he saw that it was instead a girl clothed in rags, her brown hair long and tangled, her eyes dark and looking at him with something akin to curiosity. Forcing his eyes open all the way, Javert brought his gaze to hers and locked onto it fast, but even when she noticed he was looking at her, she did not look away. She only looked back with a stare that denoted strength but also innocence, sorrow but also a strange, eerie calm. For a long moment the two watched each other, Javert taking in her every feature as he tried to make an escape for himself from the pain, Éponine observing him in silence, amazed that he could undergo such suffering and not make even the tiniest sound. She placed one hand on the doorframe and stepped all the way inside the room, but the young man before Javert did not notice, too captivated by the current task at hand as he was.

The Inspector clenched his jaw and followed her with his eyes as she moved, his flinty gaze appearing to ask, _What are you doing here?_

Her eyes did not seem to say anything in response, and he scowled.

_Are you one of them?_ was his next unspoken question.

She bit her lip and lowered her eyes, and in that second Javert knew the answer. She looked the criminal type, of course; she was dirty, ragged, her eyes sunken in and desperate and her face marred by that certain kind of greed and longing only thieves possessed. But there was something about her that made her seem less hardened and hostile than the rest of the Patron-Minette. Then, when he looked her over again, he saw what it was. In her eyes, he realized, there was still hope, while such hope had been extinguished in the eyes of the young man pressing the knife into his skin. She was young and still hopeful that there was a better world than the one she lived in, and at that, he scoffed to himself. That hope would be gone in due time, he thought. It never remained long in the eyes of the poor, for sooner or later, they realized the truth; they realized that there was no better world for them, no brighter tomorrow, and so they gave up and tried to accept their life as it was. The Inspector could not help but sneer at her apparent, unreasonable optimism. His had been lost long ago as a young child, while she appeared to have it even as a girl who, he assumed, was either seventeen or eighteen. She was a fool, he thought, to be so hopeful, to have so much faith in humanity.

The girl stepped on a creaky floorboard then, and the young man turned to her with anger burning like fire in his eyes when the resulting sound came to his ears.

"What the hell are you doing here, 'Ponine?" he brandished the knife at her, and she pressed herself against the wall.

"Pa told me to tell you that he needs you downstairs," she said softly. Montparnasse turned back to the Inspector with a scoff.

"What about? Tell him I'm having too much fun to be disturbed."

The Inspector saw her roll her eyes, "Don't know. He said it's important."

Montparnasse growled, but obeyed nonetheless, stalking over to the door and handing Éponine the knife, "Watch the bastard while I'm gone. If he tries to escape, use this."

She nodded, taking hold of the bloody knife with a grimace. Once he was gone, however, she set it down on the floor and folded her arms, approaching the Inspector warily.

"Do you not intend to stab me if I try to escape?" he snarled. She said nothing, shook her head, and lowered her eyes to the deep gash on his arm. The sight of it made her nauseous and she swayed on her feet slightly, but quickly determined she had to staunch the flow of blood before he passed out because of it. Though she knew her father would kill her for helping Inspector Javert, the man he hated more than anything, she wasn't certain she could stomach watching someone bleed out before her very eyes and do nothing about it. Her eyes darting around in a panic, Javert watched her closely as she hurried back over to the knife and brought it to his other sleeve, the one that had not been cut off. Thinking for a moment she intended to harm him again, he braced himself for the pain, but relaxed once he saw she was only cutting into the fabric – not his skin. After removing most of his sleeve, she pressed it against the cut without a word and applied as much pressure as her frail hands could manage.

Half-surprised – not totally surprised because nothing surprised Javert anymore – he narrowed his eyes, "What're you doing, girl?"

She glared at him, but continued her work, "Helping you. You'll lose too much blood if I don't do something."

He couldn't understand why she was doing such a thing, and so he scoffed, "What obliges you to come to my aid?"

"I'm not very keen to watch someone die and do nothing, Inspector."

So she was aware of who he was, he thought. That did not surprise him, for most of the poor in Saint-Michel knew him, but he was slightly taken aback that she knew who he was and did not want to see him dead.

"Am I to believe you're simply a kindhearted person?" he bit out, then hissed when she pushed down on his arm harder. In the darkness, he thought he could see her smirk.

"I don't think I'm a kindhearted person," she pressed down harder still on the cloth, blood beginning to saturate the incompetent fabric and coat her hands, "But I'm not an evil one either." Frustrated, she cut off a piece of her skirt and pressed it onto the wound as well, cursing under her breath, "Damn 'Parnasse. He would've cut you up into pieces if Pa hadn't called him down."

Feeling his vision begin to grow dimmer and dimmer from the loss of blood, he looked sideways at her, "Jondrette is your father?" She nodded slowly, not sparing him a glance, and he barred his teeth, "Criminals reproduce faster than rats in an alleyway. What are you, girl? Are you a thief like him? Or a whore?"

Offended, her head snapped up to look at him, "Is this how you thank everyone who tries to help you?" He clenched his jaw, but said no more. Éponine cut a long piece of her faded purple skirt off and tied it tightly around the makeshift bandage already there, then backed away, "There. You're welcome."

She looked at him as if expecting him to thank her, but Javert did not intend to do any such thing. She was the daughter of a thief, criminal spawn; she was only more filth to pollute the streets, and the fact that she'd taken pity on him and bandaged him up did not change that. He did not need anyone's pity – especially not this girl, this daughter of the slums. Her work finished, Éponine went and sat against the wall closest to him, setting down the large knife beside her and making sure it was within reach for reasons unknown to herself. After growing bored counting the frayed threads on her skirt, Éponine glanced up at Javert, watching him with intelligent eyes and a creased brow. He was not looking her way and failed to notice, and so she took him in without a sound, her gaze curious in the same way it'd been when she'd first entered the room. In the dim light, she couldn't make out his every feature, but she could see some of the lines on his face and the way the moonlight caught in his eyes, giving them a predatory glint that chilled Éponine to the bone.

Like most other criminals, she feared the Inspector, feared the power he had to send someone to jail and ruin their life, feared his lack of emotion and his lack of mercy. Yet when she'd first entered the room and looked upon him, she'd realized that he was only a man; nothing more, nothing less. He was a man who could be captured, who could feel pain. Oh, Éponine knew her father would not hesitate to beat her senseless for patching him up and she feared what might come later in the night, but there was nothing she could do to stop what was coming to her, she thought with a sigh. She took a deep breath and tore her eyes from Javert, placing them instead on her hands, which had his blood all over them: in between her fingers, in the creases on her palms, underneath her fingernails. Fascinated, she stared at them, unmoving. The Inspector bled just like all people, she thought to herself. His blood was no different than hers; it came from a higher class, maybe, but blood was only blood even so. His was not special or superior in any way. It was just as everyone else's was. Javert was not so inhuman that he could not bleed.

She was ripped from her reverie when she heard what sounded like multiple pairs of footsteps creeping up the stairs. Startled, she got to her feet with all haste and took the knife in her hand, though she was uncertain whether or not she actually intended to use it. Javert realized something, then, and asked her flatly, "Do you know why they left you alone here, with me?"

"No," she looked confused, "W-why?"

"They saw my men coming. They decided it was best to get out while they still could and leave you behind."

"No," she shook her head, "No, you're lying! They wouldn't just-"

"But they would," he cut her off harshly, his voice a deep monotone that forbade any further questioning. The footsteps came closer. "And that, _mademoiselle_," he sneered, "is my officers approaching."

Éponine began to panic, "But…I-I didn't do anything! It wasn't my idea to-"

"The law does not care. You are just as guilty by association."

Javert's men burst through the door all at once then, and Éponine could do nothing to stop them when they grabbed her roughly, shoved her up against a wall, and handcuffed her hands behind her back, rendering her harmless and sending the knife tumbling to the ground.

One officer rushed over to Javert, cut his bindings, and released him. The young man looked down to see the blood on the floor and asked, "Are you all right, sir?"

"Yes, yes I'm fine." He stood and brushed himself off, but winced when he tried to move his injured arm, "I've sustained far worse injuries, Prevot."

"What are we to do with the girl?" one of them asked.

Javert's answer was terse, unsympathetic, as if the past few minutes in which she'd tended to him hadn't happened at all, "Bring her in."

Éponine began to struggle against the officer, thrashing about wildly only to be pushed harder against the wall, "Let me go! I-I haven't done anything! This isn't my fault!" She managed to turn herself around so she could, at the very least, see the Inspector. Desperate, she exclaimed, "Inspector! Monsieur, don't let them arrest me, I-"

When he turned to her, his eyes were cold. He no longer seemed like just any other man to her now; now, he was the Inspector once again – he had always been the cruel, hardhearted Inspector – and she cursed herself for thinking him any different, thinking him human like everyone else "I make no exceptions, girl."

"Oh, I should've let you _bleed to death _you bastard!" she hissed. He did not bat an eye at this and instead only watched as his men led her down the stairs and outside the building. Javert followed at a safe distance as they made their way to the station, listening to Éponine curse and struggle wildly against the officer that was holding her. After they'd been walking for a minute or so, somehow, she managed to get free and hurry back toward where the Inspector was walking, not bothering to try to run for she knew she wouldn't get far with so many men on her trail.

"Listen to me!" she cried as two officers caught her arms once more, "I can tell you where they went. My father's gang." The Inspector stopped walking, considered her words, and ultimately decided to listen. It took her a moment to catch her breath, "I know where their hideouts are, a-and I know who they work with too. I can help you find them."

"And I suppose in return you would want your freedom," he stated plainly.

Éponine didn't bother denying it, "I help you, you help me. Isn't that how it works, Inspector?"

Under normal circumstances, had any other criminal said that to him, he would've wrapped both his hands around their neck and choked them half to death to find out what he needed to know; he would've gotten information out of them and sent them to prison nonetheless. But, Javert thought, the girl had shown him some degree of respect even when she had little reason to, and though he did not usually do so, he decided to be lenient and think over her offer in earnest. It was, after all, a preferable trade: her freedom for Patron-Minette's freedom. One harmless girl for five men who were far, far from harmless. He would be a fool to refuse, he realized, and so he chose not to.

"Tell me the address," he ordered, and after she'd complied and divulged their whereabouts, he turned to the officer holding her, who looked rather tired after having to restrain the girl so many times, "Take her back to the station. If this address is correct she goes free. If it is a lie…" his eyes shifted to hers, his stare more frigid than ice and perhaps even more intimidating than the stare of Death itself, "she shall be brought up on charges of obstruction of justice for providing false information."

"And assault on an officer," the man holding her chimed in, "She…clawed my face up rather badly, sir."

The Inspector took one look at him and then waved his hand, amused and disgusted by the whole situation, "Very well then. Go."

Just as Javert turned to leave, however, Éponine piped up as loudly as she could, "I'm not lying. I swear it!"

The Inspector turned, said nothing for a minute, but finally spat at her before turning away, "You will forgive me if I'm unwilling to take your word for it, mademoiselle."

* * *

As they were ordered, the men brought her back to the station and threw her unceremoniously into one of the cells, slamming the door behind her roughly and ensuring it was locked. As soon as she was left alone, Éponine began to feel dread festering in her stomach, like a rock. She'd heard what the Inspector said; she'd be charged with assault and obstruction of justice if the address she'd given them turned out to be wrong. _Had_ the Patron-Minette gone there? She couldn't be sure, but she knew it was their most likely location and that was about all she knew, for her father had never kept her much informed about his criminal activities. The address she'd given Javert was an old abandoned factory on the other side of town that was once used to make textiles or something of the like, and Éponine could recall she, her father, and the gang retreating there after one of their raids went awry and the police showed up. Yes, she told herself, they had to be there, or else she'd go to prison, which was certainly the last thing she wanted. Perhaps, Éponine thought, she should feel guilty for ratting out her father to save herself, but he'd done just about the equivalent to her: left her with the Inspector, knowing full well the police would be coming to take her in. He'd sacrificed her to save his own hide and now she was only doing the same to him. This was no more than what he deserved, she thought with a scowl.

Unable to do anything else as Javert's men went to find them, Éponine waited. Three hours passed by in what seemed like a day, and all the while she only waited, sitting in the little cell with her head hung, trying to occupy herself by picking up pieces of the hay underneath her and letting them fall one by one. This bored her quickly, however, and so she began to hum instead. Her low humming eventually became soft singing of a nursery rhyme she'd been taught as a girl – for she knew little else – and after that she got to her feet and strolled around the tiny cell, occasionally attempting to sing and dance with a grace she, unfortunately, did not possess.

His arm properly bandaged, Javert came upon her an hour later doing just that, and he looked at her for a moment mutely, watching her every movement, observing her impatiently yet not ready to make himself known. Éponine only noticed his presence when she spun around to face the door of the cell, and once she did, she froze, her mouth slightly agape and embarrassment flushing her cheeks.

"H-how long were you standing here?" she asked, but he did not acknowledge her question.

Pulling out keys from his pocket, he unlocked the cell door and held it open, "The address was correct. Your father and his associates have been taken into custody." Shocked, she did nothing but stare at him for a moment, and so he raised his voice, "You are free. Go."

Eventually, she snapped out of it and nodded dumbly, feeling very much like a foolish little child before him. Javert began to walk forward, leading her down a hallway and to the exit, and once they were there, he stopped. With one last uncomfortably long look at Javert in which she attempted half-heartedly to thank him without words, she opened the door and all but ran outside, eager to get away from him and the law as quickly as she could. However, just before she was about to begin heading back home, she felt a sudden urge to turn around and look back, though she knew not what compelled her to do so. When she did, she found that Javert had not moved from his position at the doorway and was standing there silently, watching her once more, as though he were not a human but a statue. His stare was distant; it seemed as if he was looking at her yet looking at nothing at all. Disconcerted, Éponine looked away and turned around as swiftly as she could, and that time she did not dare to turn around again to see if he'd persisted in watching her.

It was only after she'd traveled half the distance to her family's flat that Éponine realized Javert's blood was still on her hands.


	2. II

**II**

* * *

A week had passed since Patron-Minette's arrest.

Éponine hadn't been able to escape a rather brutal beating from her mother for ratting out her father and his gang, and also hadn't been able to avoid being thrown out of their little flat 'until we find it in our good Christian hearts to take you back,' her mother had told her. Since she had no place to live for the time being, she found herself forced out onto the streets, and so she sought refuge with her brother Gavroche in his statue at first. However, she quickly found living with him far too cramped and returned to the streets after a few days. The weather outside wasn't overly cold yet, seeing as it was only the beginning of fall, and living on the streets wasn't unfamiliar to Éponine anyway. So far she'd gotten by stealing small amounts of food from vendors in the marketplace and sleeping in alleyways when night came. Though it wasn't a preferable way of life, it was all she had, and she tolerated it as best she could. She'd thought back on the night of her encounter with Javert many times over the past seven days, and it seemed a moon did not pass without her recalling it. Éponine had washed her hands of his blood as soon as possible, but the thought of his eyes still haunted her. It'd seemed as though he knew everything about her with only one single glance; all her thoughts, her sins, her crimes. It was disturbing and even now, days later, she was just as troubled by it as she'd been that night. She couldn't forget the pitiless look in his eyes, the harsh words he'd hurled at her, the way they'd watched one another without a sound. She didn't know what to make of it all and so she endeavored to forget it'd ever happened.

This proved to be easier said than done.

One night, as she sat eating her meager, stolen dinner in an alleyway, she heard what sounded like several men arguing, their angry voices rising into the otherwise quiet night. She ignored it at first, thinking it a normal disagreement, but eventually decided to peak her head out when the quarrel escalated into a loud scuffle. Struggling to keep even her every breath as quiet as she could, she watched without a sound as what appeared to be two separate gangs emerged onto the street, and only seconds after that, she saw the moonlight reflect off of a knife pulled from one of the men's pockets. After that, ten more weapons swiftly emerged and were brandished, and it only took a minute before the street erupted into a brawl. Fists were flying left and right, knives being swung about here and there, men ducking and being punched and then falling to the ground unconscious. Éponine flinched when one man pushed another up against the brick wall right outside the alleyway she was sitting in, fearing they'd seen her but relaxing when she realized they had failed to. One of them – the larger, scarier one – held a knife to the other's throat, a bloodthirsty look aflame in his eyes.

"You think I'm okay with you stealing my girls, you son of a bitch?" he snarled, "I'm not gonna stand by and watch those stupid whores flock to you like you're their savior."

"Come now," the other said smoothly, "I'm only giving them a bit of common courtesy, and more buck for their fuck-"

The man had no chance to say anymore, however, because before he knew it, the knife was shoved into his chest, and he crumpled to the ground. To ensure he wouldn't survive, the other man knelt down and slit this throat, then stabbed his chest once again for good measure. When the man looked up and his face became illuminated by the moonlight, Éponine got a good look at him, and she bit her lip to stop from gasping when she realized that she recognized him. Once, when her family had been desperately in need of money, her father had decided to sell her into prostitution against her will. He'd brought her to that man, known to most as simply Renard "The Fox", and handed her over. Luckily, Éponine had managed to get free before she was made to 'service' any customers, but she was sure she'd never forget that man as long as she'd lived. Though she'd only been in his presence for a few minutes, she'd been able to realize how ferocious and terrifying the man was; how dirty and low he was – lower than a dog. He'd punched a poor prostitute in the face for smarting off to him and nearly slit the throat of another, and Éponine did not need to think long to realize how great the danger for her was, then.

Terrified, she pressed herself against the wall and held her breath, closing her eyes and praying with all her might he wouldn't see her. By some miracle, he didn't, and she heard him get up and run back over to his men, commanding them to get away as fast as they could, to run to the sewers and make themselves scarce. Éponine waited until she could no longer hear the men's footsteps, and only then did she dare to poke her head out again. When she did, she noticed what appeared to be three men lying on the ground, unmoving, presumably dead. Pools of blood trickled onto the cobblestone, staining them, seeping into the cracks. She felt her stomach turn at the smell of death, and pressed a hand over her mouth to keep from vomiting.

Unwilling to move just yet, she retreated once more into the darkness and waited, listening to the silence to see if she could hear anyone approaching. Half an hour or so passed – she wasn't sure how long – and then, she heard more footsteps heading down the street. She froze, fearing it was more of the men from before and that they'd come back for her.

"What happened?"

When she heard the Inspector's voice, though, her breath caught in her throat. She knew without a doubt it was him, and every muscle in her body grew tense. Her heart began to beat a little bit faster, and though it was cold outside, she thought she could feel sweat beading on her forehead.

"An apparent brawl in the street, sir. Three men dead. It was reported by a man who heard the struggle, but he said he did not catch any of the men's faces."

Her face half-concealed by the wall, she watched as Javert looked around for a moment, assessing the situation with trained eyes, then asked, "There were no other witnesses?"

"None, sir," the officer replied with a frown, for he was well aware of the implications of such a dearth and how it would hinder them in their investigation.

Javert scowled and knelt beside one of the fallen men, rolling him over and taking a good look at him, "All stabbed multiple times, it seems. Most likely gang violence." The men around Javert nodded assent, and the Inspector rose to his feet. When he spoke, his voice held unchallengeable authority, complete confidence, not even a tiny hint of hesitation about what he wanted done, "Take the poor fools to the morgue. I should like to speak with the man who reported this. If the victims are not identified soon, they are to be buried." He snarled and took one long look at the corpses, his mien riddled with abhorrence, "It is doubtful there will be anyone to claim the lot of them."

Éponine gulped, for it was clear to her he intended to leave and if she wanted to act, she had to act soon. Should she tell him what she'd seen? She wasn't sure what she had to gain or lose from doing so, but even so, a force beckoned her to keep her mouth shut, to keep what she'd seen to herself. Why? She wasn't certain. Though they were almost certainly criminals, Éponine thought to herself that, perhaps, they deserved justice like everyone else. The Inspector had appeared to write them off as nothing: men who did not have a family, who had no mother who worried for them, no woman who loved them, no children who depended on them. Perhaps they did, she thought. Perhaps there was a woman waiting for one of them to come home, staying up into the late hours of the night, sick in her heart and fearing the worst. Perhaps there was a child waiting up in bed to be tucked in as well, unaware that their father lay dead on the ground, never to return or tell kiss them goodnight again. Éponine knew most people involved in gangs and the like had no family, but it was possible, she mused, and it was that thought that made her get to her feet and step out of the alleyway, her inhibitions suddenly nonexistent. If it were she who was killed, Éponine thought, she would not want to be regarded as nothing, as a poor dead girl unworthy of justice, who should be thrown into the ground and forgotten as soon as possible so as to not cause anyone trouble.

The Inspector had begun to walk away by then and did not see her as she revealed herself, so she called out after him, "Wait!"

When the familiar voice came to his ears, the Inspector turned and, upon realizing who it was, gestured for his officers to wait, then began to stalk back toward her. Sparing her not even a bit of gentleness, he tugged her into the alley and demanded, "What the devil are you doing here, girl?"

She bit her lip, then told him softly, "I saw what happened. And I…I know who one of the men in the fight was."

This piqued Javert's interest, though he did not show it, "Do you now." When he saw her hesitate to begin, he barked, "Speak, then." Still, she did not. "You want money." Éponine had, in truth, not considered that at all before, but the prospect of a few francs for simply telling him what she saw was beyond pleasing to her, and she nodded. Having anticipated this, his expression remained unchanged, "We'll talk of prices if your information turns out to be valuable. Now speak."

This time, she obeyed freely, and he pulled out a small notepad as she began, "Well, I was just sitting in this alleyway here, eating my dinner-"

"Did you _pay_ for your dinner?" he looked up at Éponine and asked her flatly, as though he already knew she'd stolen it. Caught off guard, she swallowed, and her surprise did not go unnoticed by him.

Éponine recovered from the initial shock quickly, but did stammer for a brief second, "Y-yes, monsieur. I bought it with good money."

He shook his head and looked back down at his paper, not to be bothered to challenge her even though he saw plain as day that she was lying, "Very well. Continue."

"I heard some men begin to argue outside in the street, and so I looked out to see what was going on. There were a lot of them – ten or twelve, I think. Th-they all started fighting with knives, and then one of them pushed another up to the wall right outside my alley. He was angry at the other for…'stealing his girls,' he said. He was angry because the man was offering them more money. And…then he stabbed him, and they all ran away."

Javert stopped writing for a moment, "You said you knew what his name was."

"Oh, yes. Renard, he's called. 'The Fox." He's a pimp. I-I can take you to him. I know where he'll be."

"Nonsense," Javert grunted without glancing up at her, "Just give me the address and we shall handle it on our own."

She tilted her head to one side and folded her arms with a slight smile playing at her lips, "The places people like him go don't have addresses, monsieur."

Frustrated, he exhaled slowly, tucked the notepad into his person, then took a look at her and asked distrustfully, "How am I to know you are not leading me and my men into a trap?"

She smirked yet again, but maintained the cautious timidity she always had whenever she was around him, "I didn't lead you into a trap before, did I?"

Loath to admit she was right, he raised his chin, "Go on then. We must move quickly. Time is of the essence."

Éponine nodded and began to walk in the direction of the place without stopping to think for even a second. She had an impeccable sense of direction; she could locate almost anything she needed at the drop of a hat. She wasn't sure just when she'd acquired such a skill, but it came in handy nearly every day, and Éponine couldn't recall the last time she'd been lost. His long, black coat trailing behind him, Javert walked in silence beside her, his hands locked behind his back and his posture stiff, upright.

"This man," he said at last, intruding upon the quiet, "He is a pimp." She looked over at him and nodded slowly. He sneered, "You had said you are not a whore."

"I'm _not_ a whore," she hissed angrily, her voice trembling as a cool breeze blew through the air. She clutched her thin arms to her chest, "I just know my way around, that's all."

He did not ask any further questions, and as such, she did not give any further answers. They walked for another few minutes, and then increased their pace as per Javert's command, who insisted they were wasting time. After ten minutes of venturing down dark, dirty streets that wound through Paris like a bundle of snakes, Éponine finally stopped at a building that, if one called derelict, they would be paying it a compliment. It was disgusting, and could barely even be called a building; it looked more like a pile of boards thrown together and then weathered down by the elements until it was no longer recognizable. Vines climbed up the front and sides of it, rats skittered in and out of the building, and the thing gave off a sickening stench that made Javert's officers cringe. Upon seeing the appalling place again, Éponine froze and found her thoughts forced back to that black night a few months ago, when her father had brought her here and given her to that monster Renard.

With horror, Éponine realized she could remember that night maybe even better than she could remember yesterday.

* * *

_It was a perfectly calm, peaceful night in Paris; one unlike most citizens had seen in a while, and no one was sure of the exact cause. There wasn't a cloud to be seen in the whole of the sky, and the wind was gentle, whipping around buildings softly, almost without a sound. Everything seemed still. Nothing dared to move, as if nature had chosen to lapse into silence for a few hours. Even the River Seine's rushing tide had quieted down somewhat in accordance with everything else around it. Both the richest and the poorest man were put at ease and slumbered undisturbed, their minds comforted and carefree for reasons unknown to them._

_The state of calm that was prevalent all throughout the city, however, could not be further from the state of Éponine's mind._

"_I won't do it! You can't make me do it! I-I won't!" she protested loudly, struggling in vain against her father's hold on her as he dragged her into an even grimier part of Saint-Michel: the area where the prostitutes worked, where the pimps thrived, where the air stank of cheap perfume and sex. She recoiled at the pungent smell as it overwhelmed her senses. She'd always vowed she'd never end up here, with the lowest of the low, the dirtiest of the dirty, but here she was nonetheless. She swallowed the bile that threatened to rise in her throat. Her father had told her only an hour ago that he would be taking her here, that it was time for her to go out and earn her keep for once instead of leeching off of him for the rest of her sorry life. She'd been given no choice in the matter, and though she'd fought desperately to escape his iron grip, she'd had no luck._

"_You don't have a choice, girl. It's about damn time you went out on your own."_

"_B-but there must be some other way, for me to earn my keep. Not this; anything but this-"_

_He bit out a sardonic laugh, "There's no other way for the likes of you."_

_Before she could say anything else, her father pulled her toward the door of a run-down building and knocked on it four times in a steady rhythm that she assumed was some sort of code to ensure those inside he wasn't with the law. She stood there trembling for a moment in silence, and then the door creaked open very slowly. Half of a man's face became visible in the moonlight, but through the darkness, she couldn't make out any of his features._

"_What do you want?" he croaked in a rough voice. Thénardier smiled a crooked, toothless grin and pushed her forward._

_All he bothered to say was, "Got a girl for you. How much will you give me?"_

_He opened the door a little more, "I'll take her to Renard. Come on in."_

_They did so, and Éponine fought back her tears as she took in her surroundings, glancing into small rooms as she and her father followed the man down a long hallway. There were women everywhere; some sitting on thin pallets on the floor doing nothing, tears streaming down their cheeks, their makeup poorly-done and making them look as though they were sad clowns. Others were naked and had men with them; some were on their knees, their heads buried into a man's groin, and every time she saw that, Éponine looked away in horror. She would not do such a thing, she vowed with everything that she was. She would never lower herself to that degree. They continued their trek through the building, her father occasionally winking at some of the prostitutes who looked his way, Éponine attempting to block out the vulgar noises the men and women were making. Eventually, the three of them came upon what appeared to be the last room in the building, and the man leading them knocked on the closed door, pulling it open when he received permission to enter from the other side._

_Éponine would never forget her first glimpse of the man within._

_His features weren't overly memorable, really, but somehow, the moment she saw him, she knew the sight of him would stick with her forever. He was perhaps the dirtiest person she'd ever seen; his face was covered with grime, his hair was slick with grease, his face was patterned with blemishes, his eyes sunken in, his skin a sickly, unnatural color. He was even filthier than her father, and the sight of him appalled her. The edges of his face were hard and sharp, his bone structure long and angular. He seemed to be going bald, but had many strands of thinning hair left on his head. When he rose to his feet to get a look at who had entered what appeared to be his office, Éponine could see how tall and lanky he was, his long, stick-like arms hanging at his sides. He was hunched over slightly, and when he grinned at the sight of them, Éponine noticed that his teeth were yellowed and almost totally gone. The few that he had appeared to be barely hanging on to his gums._

_When he spoke, his voice was low, raspy, with a lecherous lilt to it that made her swallow, "What's this we've got here?" Uneasily, she shifted her weight from one foot to another as she approached her. He looked to her father, "I suppose you want me to name a price for the wench, monsieur?"_

_Her father nodded and folded his arms, and did not bat an eye when the man yanked Éponine close to him to examine her, "Pretty enough thing, I suppose." He looked up at Thénardier, "She a virgin?" Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Éponine shrink away ever so slightly and bite her lip, and he chuckled, his rancid breath making her eyes water, "I suppose that's my answer." _

_He lowered his face closer to her, and, without warning, tore open the front of her thin chemise, leaving her breasts exposed to him. Scared, she tried to pull away, but he tightened his hold on her. His eyes ran up and down her chest hungrily, and for a moment, she feared he meant to take her right there and then. Instead, much to her terror, he seized her mouth with his, his filthy tongue delving deep and forcing hers into a dance against her will. He tasted even worse than he smelled, and she felt the sudden urge to throw up. She tried to pull away again, of course, but had no luck, and in reply he forced himself on her harder, shoving her against the wall. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, and she prayed silently for God to protect her, to take her away from the man before her. She'd never felt so unclean, so disgusting, so worthless, and it took every last scrap of her strength not to break down and weep._

_When he pulled away, both were panting, and Éponine was struggling not to pass out. He smirked a crooked smirk and, thankfully, released her. She swayed, fearing her knees meant to give out. "Got to make sure the product is satisfactory before you sell it, eh?" he laughed, "I'll give you twenty francs. If the customers like her I'll see to it that you get more. If they don't…" he looked down at her, his eyes narrowed, "I'll _personally_ make sure she learns how to be good."_

* * *

Unaware that Éponine's mind had journeyed to another place entirely, the Inspector brought her from her memories when he walked over beside her and asked, "This is the place?"

Éponine nodded her head and gulped as the Inspector's men closed in around the area, drawing their truncheons and preparing for a fight, "Yes. This is the place."

The Inspector nodded to his officers, and then glanced over at her, "Stay behind me."

Led by Javert, the men stormed into the building all at once, Éponine crouching carefully behind him. They hurried in so quickly that Éponine barely had enough time to register what was going on. The moment the smell of sex hit her nostrils, she tensed, but did not stop moving. In the distance, she saw the door she'd gone in all those months ago, and she felt tears beginning to invade her vision. Before she could think any further, however, the Inspector kicked the door down with a surprising amount of force and led his men inside. Renard shot up from his desk, throwing the women who'd been hanging off of him aside, and made a desperate dash for the exit. However, within seconds, the officers had handcuffed both Renard and the prostitutes, rendering them harmless.

The Inspector then grabbed Renard, and brought him over to where Éponine stood, cowering in the corner. "This is the man you saw?" Angered yet terrified by the sight of his dark eyes boring into hers, all she could do was nod without a word. "You are certain?" Again, she nodded affirmation. This seemed to satisfy Javert, and he motioned for one of his officers to take the man away. Something came over her, then, and before she could think it over, she started toward the man.

"Stop," she told the officer holding Renard, and for some reason he obeyed. Her cheeks flushed with fury, she strode over to the vile man, raised her hand to him, and slapped him as hard as she could, feeling great gratification when the sound of flesh slapping flesh drifted to her ears. It wasn't nearly enough revenge for her liking, but the feeling of the triumphant grin on her face and the shock on Renard's was immensely satisfying.

After recovering from the stinging pain, Renard looked up at her with bewilderment in his eyes. It was obvious to her that he didn't remember who she was, and though it made her even angrier, she did nothing more and only stood there silently when he exclaimed, "What the hell, you crazy-"

He was given no time to finish, though, for the officer holding him forced him to turn in the opposite direction and then led him out of sight. Éponine and the Inspector followed the rest of the men back outside, and she sighed in relief the moment she could breathe fresh air into her lungs again. For a moment she only stood there, her eyes closed, her mind struggling to come to terms with what'd just happened, but she was shaken from her thoughts when Javert cleared his throat behind her.

"I believe a payment is in order," he said, and when she turned to him, found he'd extended a bundle of francs to her, "In addition to the murders, Renard was operating a vast prostitution ring, and as a result of his arrest it will be broken up." Though he detested paying anyone a compliment, he grudgingly admitted, "You have been… useful."

A spike of hope shot through her heart at the sight of money, and she took it perhaps a little too eagerly. She felt slightly guilty when she saw the snarl on his face, his irritation at her being so greedy for any money she could get her hands on, but shook it off quickly. At the sight of the franc notes in her hands, an idea came to Éponine out of nowhere, then, and before he could walk away, she said, "I-I do believe we could continue to be…useful to one another, Inspector."

"What do you mean?" his eyes analyzed her closely.

A lazy grin pulled at the corners of her lips, "Like I said, I know my way around. I've helped you twice already. I could help you again."

"For a price, I assume," he said. She nodded, astonished that he actually seemed to be considering her offer in truth. Javert cleared his throat, said nothing for a minute, but finally told her, "I do not work with informants." The hope in her eyes died and her shoulders slumped when he began to leave. Before he took even a few steps in the other direction, though, he turned back to look at her, "But should I find myself presented with a case that would benefit from your assistance, I will seek you out, mademoiselle…"

"Éponine," she finished for him. She clasped her hands nervously behind her back, and he nodded. Then, she asked, "But…h-how will you know where to find me?"

An expression made its way onto Javert's face at that moment; an expression that, on anyone else, might've resembled amusement, a grin, or perhaps even laughter. On him, however, any amusement or laughter was twisted and thus unrecognizable, and instead, it looked rather like he was snarling, "I can assure you, mademoiselle, that I know my way around as well."


	3. III

**Note: **I just wanted to give you all a quick update of how long this story will end up being. Right now, it's at 100k+ words, and I estimate that in the end it will be around 120k. There's a lot to come, and I'm really looking forward to what you guys will think of it. Thank you for all the reviews and favorites.

* * *

**III**

* * *

Javert had not been lying when he said he did not work with informants.

It was too messy, and a far too unreliable way of getting necessary information. More often than not, informants were not entirely trustworthy and could provide false information, or lead officers into a trap. It was also risky on the informant's part as well, and Javert did not enjoy seeing people who tried to enforce the law slaughtered by criminals. The Inspector also did not prefer sending other people to do his dirty work; if he had to go undercover, he would do so and he wouldn't ask anyone else to do it for him. He led his investigations himself andhe found out whatever information he needed – no one else did it for him. Once, a few years ago when he'd taken over a particularly difficult and hard-to-crack serial homicide case, he'd used a young prostitute as an informer who, in the end, had been found out and murdered, which certainly had not looked good on his part. To say he was wary of ever using an informant again was an understatement, but still, he could not deny that there were benefits of doing so. It was, of course, useful to have someone working with the force who knew the streets as a criminal instead of as a lawman. It was useful as well to have a spy whose face wasn't known amongst the poor, someone who was an adept liar and could blend in with ease. Javert knew very well there was a chance the girl Éponine could be valuable to him, yet he persisted in his hesitance. She was the daughter of a criminal, and he did not have to think long to realize that she might not be completely trustworthy, or could have ulterior motives for helping him, for he couldn't be certain just where her loyalties rested. At that, Javert scowled. He was not willing to chance having dishonest people working for him who could muddle up his investigations. He simply would not allow it.

However, earlier that week he'd been handed a case about a series of armed robberies and muggings on Rue d'Assas and the other streets nearby, and even now, five days later, he and his men had made little progress in identifying and arresting the culprits. He found himself wondering if the mademoiselle could be of any use, and eventually determined on the sixth day that he would rather solve the case with the help of an informant – which was not a preferable decision at all for Javert – than not solve the case at all. A few of the victims had been of reasonable wealth, and as such, he found himself under pressure to catch the criminals and bring them to justice. He could not afford to waste any time depending on his bumbling idiots of subordinates to go undercover and find out what he needed to know; the last time he'd trusted them to do such a thing they'd nearly gotten themselves all killed. No, he needed someone who was street smart, who looked and acted like a veritable criminal. Someone who knew their way around.

Someone like her.

Choosing to seek her out was difficult for the Inspector, but not overly so. Actually seeking her out would be another story entirely.

Some people were creatures of habit and others weren't; Javert knew it was as simple as that. While patrolling that evening, he made a point to go to the alleyway she'd been in before when she'd witnessed the fight, but found that she was not there. He traversed the streets for the rest of the night without locating the elusive Éponine and began to feel frustrated, thinking that, perhaps, she was not worth all this trouble and that he should instead be doing something productive with the case. Knowing well that it was possible she would be there, he decided to go to the marketplace the next afternoon in his quest for her, and, after walking around aimlessly for a minute under the pretense that he was on patrol, finally came upon the girl leaning against a brick wall idly, looking ready to steal even though he knew that, because of him, she had more than enough money to buy food for herself. She was dressed in her rags from before, one foot crossed over the other, her eyes flitting about the area. Her face and hair were still dirty, and he thought to himself that it didn't appear she'd used the money to clean herself up or anything of the sort.

He circled around her and approached Éponine from behind so she wouldn't be able to see him coming. Without giving her a warning, Javert ordered gruffly, "Do not look at me."

Surprised, she disobeyed him for a brief second, but then directed her gaze away from his and grinned, trying to recover from the shock, "Hello to you too, Inspector."

"I need to speak with you," he kept his eyes on other people as he spoke to her, ensuring it was not obvious to any passerby that he was conversing with her, "Steal a loaf of bread from that vendor over there."

"You want me to break the law?" she scoffed, "I never thought I'd live to see the day." He heard her snicker. "But all right."

Before he had the chance to say anything else, she strolled slowly over to the bread vendor: a fat, balding, middle-aged man who was scrutinizing his customers with suspicious eyes from behind his stand, making sure none of them intended to steal for he'd learned over the years that the Saint-Michel marketplace was a breeding ground for criminals and hungry gamin who stole to get by. When she first approached, the man was not looking in her direction, and so she took the opportunity to grab a loaf of bread, then. The sudden movements in his peripheral vision made the vendor turn his head to look at her, but Éponine did not even attempt to hide the bread in her person. Instead, she only smirked, her eyes sparkling with defiance, and then turned to dart away.

The man was quick to cry out, "Hey! Thief! Someone, get her! She stole my bread!"

She was certain she'd ever enjoyed hearing those words so much before, and she let out a laugh as she ran away, much to the bewilderment of the witnesses to the crime. She could hear the Inspector give chase behind her, his footsteps hitting the ground loudly, gaining on her fast. She only bothered to run for a little while until she was out of sight of most everyone in the marketplace, and then eventually stopped inside a narrow alley. With a smirk, she turned to him, took a mouthful of the bread, and chewed slowly as she watched him approach her, one hand placed on her hip.

Amused, she asked, "How is that poor man to be reimbursed, monsieur?" So as to not make anyone nearby suspicious, Javert did not answer, and only removed his handcuffs, placing them on her wrists with a bit more roughness than was necessary. Since she was not being arrested in truth, she furrowed her eyebrows when he pushed her against the wall, "Hey. Not so rough."

"You're under arrest," he announced a little louder than he usually would. Then, he spat under his breath, "Don't act so calm. People will be suspicious." Éponine decided to take advantage of this newfound freedom and therefore dared to elbow him in the ribs, then kick him in the shins. He made a sound of surprise that quickly turned to anger as he yanked her out of the alley and into the street. He grabbed onto one of her arms tightly and told her, "And don't enjoy yourself so much, girl."

"Do you think I enjoy getting arrested?" she muttered lowly, but not so lowly that he could not hear, "What's this about?"

"We shall not talk about these matters here," he answered curtly. He did not say anymore until they'd reached the police station, which they reached quickly enough as it wasn't a long ways away from the marketplace.

Walking past other officers and nodding in return when they greeted him, he led her inside, but did not take her to the cells like he would with a normal prisoner. Instead, he brought her to his office, made sure to close and lock the door, and then finally unlocked her handcuffs. He motioned for her to take a seat in one of the two chairs in front of his desk, and once she'd done so, she took a look around her. She found herself curious about his office; the place where, she figured, he almost certainly spent most of his time. Even though it was so frequently used by him, there was almost no sign of Javert anywhere; it might as well be no one's office at all, for there were no personal effects lying around anywhere, nothing on his desk but paperwork and an inkwell, nothing on his bookshelves but rows upon rows of what were probably law books. All the wood in the room was dark, and the air in the room stuffy and hot. She wondered for a moment how he tolerated these conditions, but then told herself that he likely didn't mind. It suited him, anyway, for he was a rather dark and stuffy person himself.

He took a seat as well, and she eyed him closely, "I assume I can be of some use to you, Inspector?"

"Yes. Recently, there have been a series of break-ins and muggings in the vicinity-" he began flatly.

"There are always break-ins and muggings in this vicinity, monsieur," she told him with raised eyebrows.

He glared at her, then continued, "These, however, we believe to have been carried out by the same group of people. At every house that is infiltrated, a different color of bandana has been found left behind as the perpetrator's claim on the crime: red, yellow, white, green. Witnesses have provided a description of the men, and from that we have drawn up these pictures."

He pushed three pieces of paper towards her on the desk. She took them into her hands gently and studied them. The first was of a man who appeared to be rather fat and without a single strand of hair on his head. There was nothing remarkable about his features and the picture failed to call any memories to mind, so she placed it back down on Javert's desk and shook her head. She did not recognize the second either: a skinny-looking man with a thin face and long, unruly hair that made him bear striking resemblance to a sewer rat. The two of them looked like they could be any poor man on the streets of Paris, really, and Éponine wondered for a moment how Javert intended to solve the case if this was all he had. Flattening her lips into a line, she set down the second and took a thorough look at the third. Immediately, the face sketched onto the paper jumped out at her, and she knew who he was. The man before her had been an acquaintance of Montparnasse, and she recalled him introducing himself as Valade, or something of the like. She'd met him once at one of the filthy lairs her father and the gang would go to play cards and drink themselves into a stupor. He appeared more clean-shaven and tidier than the other men, she mused. His hair was well kempt, and, though they did not appear so in the picture, she could remember his eyes being dark – so dark that she had been certain they didn't even have any whites in them.

Javert noted her state of contemplation, "You know this man?"

"Yes," she nodded, setting the paper down, "And I… might know where he could be."

"What about the others?"

Éponine shook her head, "I'm not sure."

He leaned forward slightly, lending her his full attention, "This place, what is it?"

"A meeting spot. Pa used to go there with the boys to drink and play cards." Javert narrowed his eyes, and so she clarified, "With… Patron-Minette, I mean. It's not a friendly place. If you went in there you'd be face to face with some of the meanest crooks around."

He thought for a minute, "Then it would be necessary to single these men out, lure them away from this…nest of criminals." Her eyes lit up, and she shot up straight in the chair. He blinked and demanded, "What? What is it?"

She got to her feet and placed both hands on his desk, looking down at the pictures of the men as she spoke, a planning coming together in her mind like pieces of a puzzle, "I think, Inspector…I've got an idea."

* * *

It'd taken a great deal of persuasion for Javert to agree to follow Éponine to the location she'd spoken of, and it had taken an infinitely greater deal of persuasion to get him to go along with the plan she'd cooked up. She'd told him all about it, of course – she would speak to the man from the drawing, tell him she needed his assistance in breaking Patron-Minette out of jail, get him to bring his men with him, and then lead them to the Inspector – yet he remained cautious of sending her into that den of filth without any protection, for he assumed it'd already gotten around that she'd played a part in sending her father's gang to jail. If those criminals thought there was someone working with the law amongst them, he knew Éponine would be shot dead within minutes to keep her silent for all of eternity. Still, she'd insisted that he not bring any men with him and that he wait outside, clothed in a hat that mostly concealed his face and a long, dark coat to keep passersby from recognizing him. The more low-key, the better, she told Javert, and bringing anybody else besides the two of them would draw far too much attention to them.

He agreed rather reluctantly, and Javert found himself infuriated with the whole ordeal. This was not how he liked to operate; he needed there to be certainty, absolute safety for his officers and those under his command. He did not like taking risks, and allowing Éponine to execute her so-called 'plan' was a great risk Javert knew was irrational to let her take alone. He'd learned over the course of the past week that she was not merely a disposable informant whose death would be inconsequential. She was street-smart, wise beyond her years. She knew a surprising amount about criminal activity in Saint-Michel and the surrounding areas. He could not be certain what her motives were for helping him – though he knew that the money likely played a big part – but even so, he did not fancy seeing a valuable wealth of information like her go to waste.

After walking in silence alongside one another, Éponine pulled down the hood of the black cloak Javert had given her to shield her face and looked to him, "This is the place."

"You're a fool to go in there alone," he hissed, still silently chastising himself for listening to her and not insisting on bringing at least a dozen of his men, "You'll get yourself killed, girl."

"I can't exactly bring you along, can I?" she put her hands on her hips. She smiled confidently, for she was, in truth, not very afraid – perhaps even imprudently so, "Don't worry. These are my people. They wouldn't shoot one of their own."

Javert looked doubtful. He reached into his coat and withdrew a pistol, then held it out to her, "Take this, though it may not do you much good if you are discovered."

"I fear you underestimate me, monsieur," she murmured as she tucked it into her person, before taking one last look at him, nodding, and then disappearing into the alleyway to access the backdoor. She'd neglected to mention to him that she wasn't exactly sure how to shoot a gun, but she decided that she'd likely figure out a way should the need arise. Before entering, Éponine paused and took a deep breath of the cold night air into her lungs that startled her into complete alertness. A question asked by some ghostly voice drifted to her ears all of a sudden, just as she placed her hand on the rotting wood of the door to open it.

Why was she doing this, really? Why was she taking such a chance to help enforce the law – the _law_, the very thing she'd been brought up to hate above all else ever since she was a child? Her parents had taught her just about every trick in the book to avoid the justice system and yet here she was, helping Inspector Javert, going against everything she'd ever believed in, betraying the same people she'd grown up with. Perhaps she was only doing this because she knew it would enrage her father. Some children broke the law to get back at their parents – was it simply the other way around for her? She didn't know. Though it was a great incentive, Éponine could not shake the feeling that she was doing this for some reason other than money. Did she, deep inside, past all the greed embedded into her soul by years on the street, want to do the right thing? Oh, what'd become of her? She detested the wealthy, hated those who had never known hunger, loathed the people who wanted for nothing. She was a criminal who stole to survive, and helping the law should seem a fate worse than death to her, but it didn't, and though she tried so very hard to understand, she hadn't the foggiest notion why she would help her oppressors so willingly.

Disinclined to think on the matter anymore, she pushed open the door and slipped inside the building. Immediately, she encountered with thick smell of smoke and liquor, but she shook it off and disregarded it. She'd been here many times, and she was used to it the suffocating stench of places like this. Hardly anyone looked in her direction as she waded her way through the sea of criminals, of thieves, rapists, murderers. All the while she was glancing around as furtively as she could, praying to God that Valade would be there but finding that, with every step, she could not see him. Discouraged after a short while and not wanting to be noticed by anyone, she stalked over to the small wooden bar on the far side of the room and fell down hard into one of the stools. With a frown, she rested her chin on her hand and lowered her eyes. Oh, she'd been a fool to think he'd be here. What was she to do now? Go out and tell Javert she had absolutely nothing? All at once, she felt incompetent, inferior, and she cursed lowly under her breath. Surely Javert already thought she was inept, and the last thing she wanted was to prove to him that he was right.

A voice broke through her rumination, "What can I get for you, mademoiselle?"

She glanced up at the person from whom the voice was coming, and she could hardly believe it when found her gaze colliding with the man she was looking for: Valade. His eyes were black like she remembered and made him look almost as though he lacked a soul – which, Éponine thought to herself, might not be too far off from the truth. He was dressed in reasonably nice clothes: a fine black frock coat, a dark cravat, and a neatly pressed black pair of trousers that, altogether, made him look as though he was attending a formal event. Sideburns ran down either side of his vulturine features, and Éponine marveled for a moment how much he resembled Montparnasse. She thought for a moment that the two could be related, but was ripped from her thoughts when he spoke again.

"Wait a minute, I know you. You're the Jondrette girl." His face morphed into an ugly scowl, "Heard your father and his gang got locked up on account of you."

Éponine hastily put on a false mien of indifference, "Only because the bastards left me to get fed to the dogs. I had good reason, monsieur. Oh, and the name's Éponine." He nodded, but did not introduce himself in return. She paused for a moment and then inquired, "You know 'Parnasse, don't you?"

His scowl lightened up, his lips melting back into a straight line, "Who doesn't?" He reached down to polish a glass, and she found herself taken aback at how fondly he spoke of the man, "We grew up together. We're like brothers. Why?"

"I want to break him and the boys out," she told him plainly, not bothering to dance around the truth, "And I need help."

He chortled, and she frowned, as he didn't seem to be taking her all too seriously, "Did you not think of this before you got them arrested?"

Each lie slipped off her tongue with an ease that surprised even Éponine herself, though she couldn't be entirely certain how convincing they were, "Being on your own isn't easy, monsieur. Besides, I've heard you've got a gang that's pulled a few good jobs lately. Care to give a girl a little help?"

He seemed interested, but not a single thief in Paris would agree to anything without first asking, "What's in it for me?"

"Would my gratitude be enough?" she cocked her head to one side and gave him the most flirtatious glance she could muster. Although she'd expected repulsion, it seemed to work on Valade and he leaned into her slightly.

His mind snapped back into seriousness quickly, not allowing his judgment to be clouded by lust, "Where are they being kept?"

"The station's cells. They haven't been sentenced yet," she told him.

He nodded, set down the glass he was cleaning, and retreated into the back room. After a moment he reappeared, holding a piece of paper which he placed on the bar and slid toward her. He glanced around so as to ensure that no one was listening in on their conversation, lowered his face close to her, and rasped, "Meet me at this address at midnight two days from now. Come alone. The fewer we have with us the better." He noticed the grave expression on her face and smirked crookedly, "Don't look so scared. This'll be an easy job. The cops around here aren't nearly as smart as we are."

Without another word, she grabbed the paper, spun around, and made her way out of the building, laughing silently and pondering to herself just how wrong he was. In one swift movement, she pushed open the back door and reentered the dark alley, relieved to be out of that horrid place. Éponine looked around for a moment, and eventually noticed Javert leaning up against a wall a few feet away from her, his head down and his hands in his pockets. She approached him slowly, and he looked up with suspicious eyes, ready to fight off anyone who tried to jump him. When he saw it was only her, however, Javert relaxed the hand he'd had ready to grab his weapon.

Immensely proud of herself, she took the paper out of her pocket and handed it to him, "I'm to be there two nights from now, at midnight. He will bring his men." He unfolded the paper and read the address, then raised his eyes to her with a gaze that looked both surprised and somewhat disbelieving. It seemed almost to her as though he'd expected her to fail and come up with nothing, so she grinned, keeping her eyes lowered but allowing a playful lilt to creep into her voice, "Are you not impressed, Inspector?"

He, however, steadfastly refused to acknowledge that what she'd done was in any way notable, "I will be _satisfied_, mademoiselle, when I catch these men and they are put behind bars. Not impressed."

He began to walk out of the alley, and once they were back in the street, she pulled the hood of her cloak over her head. If one approached them from the opposite direction, Éponine thought as she glanced sideways at Javert, they might find themselves pondering how both people simply seemed to disappear underneath their clothing, their identities totally concealed from the outside world. No longer were they Éponine or the Inspector; instead, they were anybody and they were nobody at all.

After they'd been walking for a few minutes, she looked over at him, her face barely visible in the darkness, and declared, "I think you ought to be impressed. It's not every day you'll find an informant like me, you know."

The Inspector nearly snorted, "Do not overvalue yourself. You are perfectly disposable."

Then, she did something no one had done to Javert in years: she laughed at him. Not quietly or timidly like she had before, but a loud cackle that echoed down the empty street and made Javert looked around frantically to see if anyone nearby was watching. Éponine recovered with haste, however, and told him softly, "I don't believe you, monsieur."

Before they parted ways for the night, Javert took one last look at her and, though perhaps he did not totally believe himself either, told her, "You ought to."


	4. IV

**Notes: **This will be the last author's note I bother you with for a while, but I just wanted to tell you that this story has been completed, and honestly, I'm not opposed at all to writing more of this pairing. I've got a few ideas floating around in my head that I'm a bit unsure of, but if you all have any suggestions, I'm open to them. Thanks!

In other news: I've gotten a Tumblr and have put the link on my profile. If anyone wants to follow me, it'd be great to know some people on there. ;)

* * *

**IV**

* * *

The day Éponine was to meet the men who believed they were to break her father's gang out of jail, Javert first brought her to his office and briefed her on what was to happen, and that she was to do exactly what he said and not try anything that would endanger her safety. Once more, she was sat in one of the chairs in front of his desk, sweat beginning to bead on her forehead in the heat of the cramped room. Javert noticed her eagerness to get this over with, and so he did not delay speaking to her.

"As you know, I will have my men stationed outside the building at which you are to meet them. If things go wrong then, scream and my officers will get the scoundrels. However, it is preferable we catch them in the act of breaking the law and lock them up immediately. This will allow us to look further into the home invasions on the Rue d'Assas and charge them for those crimes as well. You are to lead them to the station and sneak into the back entrance; I will tell any guards that are about not to put up much of a fight. I will also see to it that the cells here are empty, and me and my men will be lying in wait for them as soon as they arrive. The instant we move in you are to get out of harm's way, understand?"

"I trust you'll allow me to keep the pistol, then?" she asked.

He frowned and spoke frankly to her, "A weapon will do little to help you in a fight against three men who will likely have guns as well. You shall lie to them as best you can, make them believe your charade, and let us do the fighting." He lowered his eyes to his paperwork and mumbled, "Though you are not the most…convincing liar in the world."

Since he had barely attempted to be quiet, she heard his words loud and clear and narrowed her eyes, "What do you mean? I-I've gotten this far with my lies, haven't I?"

"Perhaps," he still did not bother to look up at her. He thought for a minute, got to his feet and turned to pull out a book from his bookshelf, then sank back into his seat, "But your eyes betray your every emotion. It is a dangerous flaw."

"So…when I told you that I hadn't stolen my dinner, on the night when I saw that brawl…You didn't believe me?" she asked softly, worried that, perhaps, Valade had seen right through her as well and planned to harm her at their meeting spot later that night.

He only gave her a blank look that clearly said, _Of course not._

Her cheeks flushed even pinker and anger bled visibly into her eyes. Éponine shot up from her chair, hands clenched into tight fists at her sides, and before she could think better of it, she blurted out, "Then teach me how. Teach me how to lie."

Once again, he looked up at her, and this time his stare was nigh on incredulous. However, he decided, it would likely be to both of their benefit if he did so. If she could lie well she could be far more productive of an informant, and if he was to have an informant at all – which was a notion he still was not entirely fond of – he would much rather have a productive one than a dead one, killed because the criminals she was lying to knew without a doubt she wasn't telling them the truth. It was with this in mind that he got to his feet, and this time, walked past his desk. He planted his feet firmly on the wooden floor in front of her and looked deep into her eyes. Already, even without really trying to, Javert could see she was scared of him, but past that fear, he swore he could see a genuine readiness and willingness to learn, to have him teach her.

As soon as he approached her, her eyes shied away from his, and Javert's deep voice boomed suddenly, "Look me in the eyes." She did so, and felt her breath catch in her throat when his impassive gaze entangled with hers. Almost instinctively, she looked away, and so the Inspector placed his cold hand on her chin and tilted it upwards, thereby leaving her no other choice but to look him. He lowered his voice and moved slightly closer to her, so that their chests were only inches from touching, then placed his hands on her shoulders, "Relax your shoulders; you are too tense. When speaking a falsehood you must look the person to whom you're lying directly in the eyes, and you cannot show any fear. "

For a moment, he assessed the girl in front of him, and all the while, Éponine stood there in silence, her ears ringing loudly, making it so that she couldn't hear what he was saying to her. Her heart was pounding so rapidly in her chest that she was certain it would cause her to collapse. She'd never been so close to such a fearsome and large man, and the instant he pressed down on her shoulders to lower them, she stopped breathing for a moment. She felt a potent cocktail of emotions shoot through her that nearly brought her to her knees: terror, curiosity, and then, something else she couldn't find the words to describe. It felt almost like a desire, a yearning for something that was unknown to her. Was it a hope that he would get closer to her, touch his hand to her face again? She didn't know, nor could she hope to understand it. As soon as she stumbled across those thoughts, her eyes flew open wide. No one but Marius had ever made her feel that way, and it was at that moment that she realized she'd barely even thought of Marius in over a week, since the night of Patron-Minette's arrest. And what had managed to replace thoughts of him? Thoughts of Javert, although not thoughts of love or affection like she'd had of Marius, but curious, inquisitive thoughts about this mystery of a man. Her own reverie unsettled her, and it was plain to see on her face. Her cheeks flushed even redder, and her arms suddenly felt flimsy, as if they were thin twigs that would fall off and blow away in the slightest breeze.

After she'd gone without breathing for almost a minute, Javert noticed how disconcerted she seemed and growled, "What's the matter with you? If you're going to learn how to lie you cannot look so afraid."

Seeing that he did not seem to realize he was the reason she was so very afraid and yet so very fascinated, she cleared her throat and made to leave, unable to think of anything else to do, "I-I have to be on my way. I'll see you later tonight… Inspector."

Bewildered, Javert eyed her shiftily, but asked no questions and instead only bid her farewell in return, "Very well then. I wish you luck with your mission tonight, mademoiselle."

Before he could say another word, she turned and hurried out of his office as quickly as her thin legs could carry her. Javert watched her go without a sound, wondering why she'd been so eager to escape his presence all of a sudden, but he quickly determined that he could not be bothered with the matter at the present when he had other, greater things on his mind. He still had to brief his men and ensure everything went as planned tonight, though Javert would admit that he could not be certain how safe Éponine would actually be and if she would make it out unscathed. The girl was smart, but she had her every thought written all over her face, and it made her far more vulnerable than she would have been had she been able to put on a convincing façade of apathy. However, she had proved quite incapable of that, and all the Inspector could do was hope for the best: that she would survive and he would take the crooks into custody. Still, the Inspector had never been this hesitant to send an informant or an officer into a perilous situation – he had always treated them as people that were easily replaceable – and for a moment, he wondered if he should call her back and tell her she was not needed, but he decided that he had invested too much into this to abandon his plan so quickly. He was far too deep into the investigation to be forced back to square one now, and with the pressure of some of the wealthy families who'd been robbed weighing down on him, he couldn't afford to delay an arrest much longer.

Exhaling angrily in the same way a bull did before charging, he sat back down at his desk and returned to his work.

* * *

At midnight that night, clad in her rags and the same black cloak she'd worn before, Éponine arrived at the address given to her and slipped around the back. Gulping and uttering a quick prayer for God to protect her, she pulled open the door and disappeared into the darkness inside. Four of Javert's officers were hiding in a nearby alleyway in case any trouble arose, but Éponine prayed they would not be needed, for she knew things would be far better if they were caught breaking into the police station. She thought of what Javert had told her about how to lie effectively, and so she raised her chin, relaxed her shoulders, and took a deep breath, allowing her eyes to look dull, as if what she was about to do did not faze her in the slightest. She then began to walk down a skinny hallway with dirty wooden floors, peeking into empty rooms as she passed by. The air in the building smelled musty, and she thought she could hear water dripping in the distance. She began to sweat, but still managed to keep her face almost completely blank. When she heard footsteps behind her, her stomach sank to her feet, and she turned slowly to look at whoever had approached.

Valade's voice came to her before she could turn all the way around, "Good evening, Mademoiselle Éponine."

She jumped slightly, but when she turned, displayed not even a hint of emotion, "Good evening, monsieur."

"This way, please," he motioned to an open door down the hallway, which led to a room furnished with only a rickety old table and four chairs with broken legs. Two men sat in the chairs, and she recognized them immediately as the men from the pictures Javert had shown her. Valade gestured to the skinny, ragged one who reminded her of a rat, "This is Jean-Claude. And this," he then looked to the large, bald, fat man whose height and weight intimidated Éponine, "is Ponthieux."

"Mademoiselle," Jean-Claude greeted in a high, nasally voice, while Ponthieux said nothing.

Finally starting to believe in her faked confidence, she nodded at both of them, "Monsieurs. I trust you have a plan?"

"Ah, yes. Sit down." She complied, and Valade took a seat next to her, "This won't be hard. If there are any more guards than usual in our way we'll knock the sons of bitches out. Simple as that. We know those station's cells in and out, don't we, boys?" They nodded. Valade chuckled, "I'm surprised ole 'Parnasse hasn't cooked up some way to get out already."

"All right. So we're finished here?" she asked a bit too eagerly as she rose to her feet. The other man did the same, but she could say no more, for Valade began backing her into a corner, his eyes running hungrily over her body as though she was some delicious morsel of food.

"In return for assisting you, mademoiselle…" he murmured into her ear, "I should like a favor, of course."

She froze. She didn't want this; this was what she'd feared the most, what she knew would be a fate worse than death. Her voice trembling, she managed to choke out, "What?"

"I think you know," he chuckled, "And I trust I shall see that favor done tonight, after we've rescued 'Parnasse and the lot of them."

She nearly breathed a sigh of relief. Later tonight he would be behind bars, unable to touch her and have her body like he wanted. He was a fool, she thought, to do something without first getting what he wanted in return, but at that moment, she was so very grateful he was a fool and wouldn't try to force her into anything now. However, she was aware she had to maintain her composure, and so she put on her best bedroom eyes and dropped her voice to a low, seductive whisper, "Very well then. I will look forward to it."

He smirked, revealing a set of large, yellowed teeth. Then, he turned to his men, "Come on boys. Let's go."

They nodded and made their way out the back door and into the street, taking care to walk as much in the darkness and in alleyways as they could. She followed the men in silence, and found herself grateful when none of them tried to make any more unwanted advances on her or strike up a conversation. They reached the station with haste, and, as she'd been told to, directed them around the back. They managed to knock the guard posted outside unconscious almost without a sound, and then Jean-Claude picked the lock with expert fingers, letting them inside. They then proceeded to creep over to the few cells where prisoners were normally kept until their sentences were decided, taking out another guard on the way. As they approached the cells Éponine knew very well would not be holding her father and his gang, she felt sudden, overwhelming fear come to her. Javert hadn't told her exactly where he'd be, but she supposed she'd just have to trust that he was nearby and would get rid of the men before they could lay a finger on her. However, when they walked past the cells and stood in the small hallway between them, Valade took a bewildered look around, caught off guard.

"Where the hell are they?" he muttered under his breath, and then moved his questioning eyes to look at Éponine. Apparently, her mien of indifference had faltered and given way to noticeable fear; a fear that Valade was far from oblivious to. Ponthieux and Jean-Claude seemed to realize as well precisely what Valade had begun to realize, and they closed in on her menacingly but did nothing, instead choosing to wait for their leader to act. Valade did not hesitate to do so, and charged toward her, grasping her thin wrists so hard that she winced in pain, "You little bitch! This is a trap, isn't it?"

"N-no I swear, I-" she was silenced when his fist connected with the side of her face, the force sending her tumbling to the ground against the iron bars of one of the cells. She saw that he meant to kick her and so she curled into a ball as far as she could manage, but when the harsh blows from his foot hit her stomach, she cried out, fearing the worst was only yet to come and that, perhaps, Javert would not get here in time to stop her from being killed. The next few seconds were hazy to Éponine, so hazy and unclear that she could hardly even be certain they'd happened. After Valade had been kicking her for a few moments, she heard a multitude of footsteps scrambling down the hall, heard men shouting and fighting with one another. She saw Valade and the others try to run, only to find that the officers had surrounded them and they were devoid of an escape. All the while she laid on the ground, feeling blood tricking from her nose, her face throbbing where Valade's fist had hit her and her stomach aching with what would surely be numerous bruises in the morning.

The Inspector entered the room behind his officers, took one look at Valade and his men, then ordered, "Arrest them." He realized, then, that he did not see Éponine standing amongst them, and upon looking down, noticed her crumpled form lying on the ground, almost unmoving. He wasted no time in crouching down beside her and helping her slowly prop herself up against the wall. Though normally she would be startled by his presence, her head and body were pounding with pain, and she was barely aware of what was going on around her. Her world was entirely out of focus, and Javert's features were blurred beyond recognition. He might as well have been anyone else in the world, for she hadn't a clue who he was until he spoke.

"Are you all right?" he asked in a voice that lacked its usual terrifying authority and was instead substantially softened. Breathing hard, she brought a hand to her nose to feel the blood trickling from there, but nodded nonetheless, deciding that the beatings from her parents had been far more severe than this one and that she should probably think herself fortunate. He breathed out furiously, mad at himself for not acting quickly enough and preventing such a thing, "This should not have happened."

She shook her head, blinking several times as Javert removed his handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it against her nose, "I-it's all right. I've had worse."

The Inspector's face finally came into focus for her then, and she became conscious of the cool leather of his gloved hand holding the handkerchief to her nose. Embarrassed and feeling like a pathetic, injured animal, she took it and held it for herself, watching as blood bloomed like gruesome flowers on the white fabric. Javert drew back slightly, watched her for a moment, and then offered her his hand to pull her to her feet. She took it and stood, but learned very quickly that her spinning head and wobbly knees would not allow her to remain upright for long. Before she could fall to the ground once more, Javert managed to catch her and help her remain on her feet.

"You are unwell," he observed flatly, and she nearly scoffed, for that much was glaringly obvious to her, "I will take you somewhere to lie down." He looked to his officers and told them, "Lock the rats up and guard them closely. I will see to them later."

His men nodded and took Valade and the others away. Éponine could not keep from breathing a sigh of relief once she saw he was gone.

"Somewhere to lie down? Ah, yes," she drawled as he flung her arm around his shoulders and began walking forward, "Perhaps a nice alley will do for tonight." He said nothing in reply, and she allowed Javert to guide her further into the station. After a minute, though, she glanced around inquisitively, as they were no longer in the part of the station she recognized, "W-where are we going?"

She received her answer when he turned to a door and pulled it open. Inside was a room only a little bit bigger than her family's tiny flat had been, but not nearly as dirty as that horrid place was. A bed – instead of the pallet she'd slept on for years – was contained within the small space, and in the corner there was a small, unlit hearth. There was also an end table next to the bed and a small, barren bookshelf that looked as though it had not held a book in decades. A small window in the corner let in the moonlight, and though the white wallpaper was peeling slightly, she decided that it was fairly nice.

Éponine looked to Javert, "What is this?"

"It was once a living quarters for police officers in training, when men were trained here." He paused for a moment, "I have determined that it is unsafe for you to be out on the streets now. I do not doubt that man had friends who will want to be after you, and you will not be of any use to me if you are dead."

She nodded comprehension, but the thought of having dangerous men want to harm her put her more ill at ease than she wanted to admit. She swallowed and made her way over to the bed without Javert's help, falling down onto the soft mattress and running her hands gently over the bed sheets there.

"This is certainly better than being on the streets," she murmured, then looked up at him and said honestly, "Thank you." He only stared back at her with a look that told her he clearly did not want any such thanks, and so she said no more of her gratitude. She hugged her arms to her chest and glanced around once more, "I suppose… you live in a place like this as well?"

He saw her smile as though she thought such a thing ludicrous, but he found nothing entertaining about the matter, "Yes. In a room above my office once used for storage."

She looked at him disbelievingly, for she hadn't even fathomed the idea that she could be right, "You live… at your job?"

Once more, he did not partake in her amusement, "Yes." She sobered up upon seeing that he did not find it to be comical, and Éponine lowered her eyes to the ground. The pain in her stomach and face was beginning to subside a little, and the prospect of sleeping somewhere other than on the cold ground was pleasing to her. She perked up slightly at these thoughts. Javert, unsure of what else he could say, cleared his throat and told her, "I will send someone in to light your fire and fetch you some blankets."

He stared at Éponine for a minute without a sound, and before he left he did not bid her goodnight, nor did she do the same for him. She did not thank Javert again or say anything in return; it seemed almost as though they did not need words to understand one another, and her farewell was unspoken yet fully comprehended by Javert. After lighting a small candle on her table, he shut the door quietly behind him and disappeared from sight. She lay back down on the bed and sighed, finding that she was just as baffled by the man as she'd been the first time she'd met him. She could not understand Javert, could not deduce his motives for accepting her help as an informant, could not determine why he was so cold and unfriendly, could not gather any hints of his past or of the man he'd once been. It bothered her that he seemed to see right through her like glass yet keep his emotions so hidden, his thoughts known to none but himself. He acted as though he already knew everything about her, and still, she knew absolutely nothing about him. It wasn't fair, she thought with a deep, frustrated breath, that he should remain such an unsolvable mystery while she was an open book to him. Perhaps, she thought, everyone was an open book to him, and perhaps he was simply a mystery to everyone. Perhaps she was a fool to think she could do anything to change that.

Though she beckoned it to do so, sleep did not come easily to her, and it was many hours before she could fall into even a restless slumber in which she drifted constantly in and out of consciousness, always on the brink of rest but never quite there. Since the bed was exceptionally comfortable, she knew she should've slept like a babe, yet her mind was in such a state of turmoil that it prevented her from doing so. When the first rays of daylight began to peak through her window, she groaned and buried her head into her pillow and begged God for sleep – even if it was only an hour or so. But the Lord did not oblige, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't seem to stop thinking, thoughts rushing through her head as loudly as the waters of the River Seine itself. It was not Marius that invaded her thoughts so violently and unwantedly, even though he'd occupied them habitually for years. Yet again, against all reason, it was Javert; Javert in her every thought, inescapable, present even when he was not. His always dominating presence carried over into her mind, and all she wanted was to expunge him from her mind so she could sleep in peace, but he stuck in her brain unyieldingly, like a cancer.

Clenching her jaw, she rolled over in her bed and covered her face with the blankets.


	5. V

**V**

* * *

Living at the station took a substantial amount of getting used to for Éponine.

She would not deny that being in such close proximity to the law at all times was slightly disconcerting, seeing as it was the one thing she'd been taught to avoid at all costs for most of her life. However, the majority of the officers at the station were polite to her, even if there was always an innate fear inside Éponine that one of them would arrest her for some crime she'd committed long ago. After receiving a sizable amount of money from Javert after the arrest of Valade and his men – perhaps to compensate for the injuries she'd sustained – she'd been able to buy herself a thick cloak, new shoes, and a simple, light green dress. She kept her rags, however, for she knew that, if she were made to go undercover again, she would have to look like an authentic poor girl and couldn't be walking around in decent clothes. Though they lived in the same building, she rarely saw Javert unless he had need of her, and neither sought the other out otherwise. Most days she found herself aimlessly wandering the streets like she always used to, but she knew the winter was coming on fast and it would no longer be comfortable to do so. As it grew colder and colder, she found herself almost eagerly awaiting the days that Javert would request her assistance on another case, if only to alleviate some of the monotony.

However, it had been over a week since Javert had done so, and her days were starting to grow so dismal that she thought she just might scream if she spent another moment sitting alone in her little room trying to occupy herself, or walking alone in the streets. One cold morning in the beginning of November, when she was feeling particularly bold and loath to spend another day doing nothing, she located the Inspector's office and knocked on his door timidly.

"Come in," his gruff voice called out, and so she complied, closing the door quietly behind her after she entered. Javert did not look up from his work for a minute, but when he did, he set down his quill pen to lend her his attention, "Yes, mademoiselle?"

She fidgeted and clasped her hands tightly behind her back, "I was wondering, Inspector…if you had anything I could help you with."

Upon seeing that she had not come to discuss anything important, he returned to his work, "When I have need of you I will find you."

Though she knew she should've expected him to write her off so easily, suddenly, she felt the need to make herself matter to him, though she knew not how to go about doing so. She ground her teeth together and sauntered over to one of the chairs before his desk, taking a seat and crossing her arms with a determined look on her face that made it clear she did not intend to go anywhere soon.

The Inspector seemed to wait for her to vacate his office, and when she did not, he glanced up at her again and demanded bluntly, "What is it?"

"I…" she cursed herself for sounding so small and steadied her voice, "You haven't summoned me for a week, and I should like something to do. Life here can be quite dull."

Javert got to his feet, took his coat from the back of his chair, and then slipped it around his shoulders, poised to leave, "I do not have time for this. There is somewhere I must be."

She stood as well, "Where?"

"There has been a murder at a bourgeois home on rue de la Harpe, and I am needed. You would not know anything about it," he told her, and though he was right, she could not help but feel offended that he thought her incapable of helping with a case simply because it involved a social class higher than hers.

A frown tugging her lips downward, she followed Javert out of his office and steadfastly refused to leave him alone, "I-I want to come with you."

"You are not an officer of the law," he spat as he pulled on his leather gloves, "I cannot take you on an investigation unless you are providing me with information."

"Then say I'm providing you with information!" she insisted. In response he only glared at her, and she lowered her voice, continuing to walk beside Javert even as he left the station and set out onto the streets, "I've nothing else to do. Perhaps I could be helpful."

The Inspector stopped walking then, and turned around to face her, but did not say a word for a moment. He was not used to being pestered in such a way, but he had the give the girl credit; she was one of the most stubborn people he'd met in recent years, and few would dare to challenge his authority in the way she did. Perhaps it was because he'd softened slightly toward the girl Éponine after the three arrests she'd helped him with, or perhaps it was because he simply wanted her to stop bothering him, but either way, he ground his teeth together and said, "You are to stay out of the way, and you are not to interfere in the investigative proceedings. Understand?" Immensely pleased that he'd agreed to let her come with him, she nodded mutely and obeyed Javert when he ordered, "Come along. Quickly."

He stalked off once again, and Éponine nearly had to run to keep up with his long stride and fast pace. After they'd been walking for a few minutes in absolute silence, Éponine decided to speak up about a matter she'd been pondering for a while, "What became of my father and his friends, Inspector?"

"Sentenced to prison time," he replied, "They have been transported to La Force and will remain there until they have served their sentences."

She swallowed, "H-how long will that be?"

"Nine years. Fourteen for the fool who took a knife to my arm."

Éponine closed her eyes and bit her lip. Though she'd suspected that was what would eventually become of them, she could not shake the guilt that plagued her mind at that instant. Her father was not a kind person at all and had been nothing but cruel to her in recent years, yet still, she felt almost ashamed that her actions had seen him sent off to prison. He'd been kind to her once, she mused, and she would not deny that she felt sick inside about the whole ordeal. The Inspector looked over at Éponine, and noticed the apparent mental tumult that flickered behind her eyes.

He attempted to reassure her, but his words did little to solace Éponine, "They have gotten no more than what they deserve. You were right in turning them in."

Éponine said nothing to that, and they traveled the remainder of the distance without a word passing between them, until they reached a sizable house on the end of the rue de la Harpe and stopped in front of it. There were a few officers scurrying about the premises, and the moment they noticed Javert, they made haste to open the door for him and Éponine and let them inside. As soon as the two stepped into the foyer, a few other policemen whisked Javert away into another room, and Éponine found herself alone, unsure what to do. She glanced around, admiring the fine wooden staircase to the second level of the house and the fine, polished dark wood floors underneath her feet. There were beautiful paintings of various vistas and lakes hung upon the walls and a large crystal chandelier just above where Éponine was standing, at which she marveled for a moment, wishing she could've been born into such a fine family that could afford a home like this. She then ventured further into the house and stepped inside what appeared to be a parlor, with large windows letting sunlight in from many different angles and reflecting off of the yellow walls. A group of officers were clustered in one corner of the room conversing in hushed tones and writing on little notepads, and it only took Éponine a second to notice what they were talking about.

On the sofa lay a white-haired, elderly man, who looked as though he was about seventy or eighty years old. His throat had been cut, and massive stains of blood littered the once-pristine blue fabric of the sofa. In one of his hands he held a book, and it seemed as though he'd been snuck up on and not given any time to fight back before he was killed. She felt a wave of nausea pass through her, but when she looked to the floor, hot tears welled up in her eyes without warning, and the shock she felt nearly brought her to her knees. A young boy of not more than four or five lay slain as well, his throat sliced open jaggedly, one of his minute hands resting on his chest.

Aghast, Éponine couldn't help but wonder who in the world could do such a thing. Who would want to slaughter a helpless child and an old man? What could possibly be gained from it? She felt so disgusted that she was certain she would vomit if she didn't look away, but even if she tried, her eyes would not consent to leave the gruesome scene before her. Biting her lip to keep from weeping, she took a closer look at the boy, whose bright blue eyes were still wide open though he had breathed his last. His blonde hair lay in loose curls on his head. His pale, lifeless skin stood out in stark contrast to the pool of blood around him and the man Éponine assumed was his grandfather. She thought for a moment that she shouldn't be so affected by the sight of these corpses, for she'd seen countless dead bodies in her short lifetime, but none had ever affected her in such a way and left her mind reeling, struggling to grasp onto any kind of reason, any hint of sense left in the world. It didn't make any sense at all, she thought, and the fact that a person could kill a young child in cold blood disturbed her, weakening her knees even further and sending chills up her spine.

After she'd been gaping for a while, Javert stepped into the room with two officers trailing behind him, and for a second, did not notice what she was staring with such horror. When he looked down to see the bodies, however, he closed his eyes and gestured solemnly for his men to place blankets over the corpses and take them away. Even after the boy and the old man were no longer lying on the floor, Éponine could not manage to tear her gaze from the spot where the blood still remained, a permanent reminder of the slayings that'd happened there. With another wave of his hand, the Inspector dismissed the remaining officers from the room and approached Éponine, standing beside her with his hands folded behind his back. He could not say that he failed to understand her grief – for it was the same feeling he'd felt when he was a young, fresh-faced officer right out of the police academy – but Javert had learned to harden himself to brutal homicides like this, and he'd long ago grown used to the evils of the world.

Her eyes threatening to spill over with tears, Éponine looked to Javert, "W-who would do this?"

The Inspector said nothing, keeping his gaze locked straight ahead.

"He was just a little boy…" she breathed, and found her thoughts immediately drawn to her younger brother, Gavroche. Though she didn't see him often, she couldn't imagine him being murdered so callously, so unfeelingly. She held back her tears as best she could, but her sorrow was hastening to express itself faster than she could hold it in, "What kind of person would… would _slit_ a little boy's throat?" The Inspector said nothing in reply, for he knew he could not come up with a response that would satisfy her, and Éponine spun around to face him completely, "Will you find who did this?"

Since he knew making any promises was unwise, his response was utterly pragmatic and nothing more, "We will do our best."

"No!" she cried and took hold of one of his arms, pulling him toward her slightly, "No, doing your best isn't good enough. Y…you _have_ to find who did this!"

He only looked at Éponine, his features devoid of any and all emotion, but she did not let go of him even when he said, "I assure you that we will do everything we can."

"Will you let me help? Please, Inspector…I-I want to help," she pleaded, her little hand still clutching his arm tightly, forcing their bodies closer than was perhaps comfortable for the pair of them.

"You are not an officer," he reminded her sternly.

She frowned and cast her eyes downward, "I know. But if you'll let me help…just this once…" She met his gaze fearlessly, then, and he realized how difficult it would be to get her to drop the matter when she believed so strongly in it, "I want to find who did this to them and then I'll go back to being just an informant, I promise."

Javert was reluctant – extremely so. What would his officers think if he took her along with them to investigate? It likely wouldn't be anything good, yet the Inspector could not help but appreciate her desire to do what was right, to bring the culprit to justice. It almost surprised Javert that a daughter of the slums would be so ready and willing to enforce the law on others, and though he'd once suspected her of having ulterior motives for helping him, he could see very clearly now that she was not lying, that she had a genuine hunger to catch this killer; a hunger that Javert could understand all so well.

"Very well," Javert acquiesced to her wishes with palpable unwillingness, "I will be going to notify their family members, and I assume you will want to accompany me."

She seemed to realize that he didn't want her to go with him, but even so, her face lit up with a huge grin, and she nearly began to jump up and down, "Oh, thank you, Inspector! I won't let you down; I swear!"

Her exclamation was far too loud for his liking, and so, before he quit the room with Éponine in tow and left the place, he muttered under his breath, "Please, mademoiselle, spare me your enthusiasm."

* * *

They arrived soon after at the house of the deceased old man's son – a gentleman by the name of Georges Saint-Hilaire – but before the Inspector raised his hand to knock on the door, he gave Éponine a rundown of the things she was absolutely, under any circumstances, not to do.

"If anyone asks who you are, do not say anything. I will ensure the subject is not discussed. I will ask the questions, and you are to remain silent as long as we are here. Speak only unless someone speaks to you and even then, say little."

This did not sit well with Éponine, "How am I going to help you if I can't say a word?"

"You seem to be a fairly good judge of character," he said, though paying a compliment was not an easy thing for him to do, "Watch anyone I speak to here and tell me what you see. Pay attention when they give their alibis for the day of the murder. I want to know if they are lying."

Wordlessly, she nodded her assent even though she detested the idea of remaining silent, and Javert reached forward, hitting the door with a force that made Éponine jump slightly. It promptly creaked open and revealed a short, balding man in the inside, who appeared to be the family's butler.

"Greetings, monsieur," Javert said, not at all attempting to make himself more approachable, "I need to speak with your master at once."

"Who may I ask is calling?" the man asked.

"Inspector Javert. It is a matter of urgent business."

Upon realizing he was a policeman, the butler opened the door all the way and motioned for them to enter, "I will get him at once, monsieur. Please, come in."

Éponine and Javert did so, and found that the home was just as ornate and grand as the one of the old man and little boy had been. Once the man had closed the door behind him, he hurried off the find the master of the house, and after a minute or so had passed, a slender man of average height descended the stairs and approached the two of them. A thick head of blonde hair grew atop the man's head, and finery cloaked his body, though Éponine decided that he lacked the poise and grace most of the wealthy possessed. Once he was stood in front of them, he extended his hand to Javert, "Welcome, Inspector. I am Georges Saint-Hilaire, though I… suspect you may already know that. What can I do for you?"

The Inspector shook his hand briefly and then pulled away, "Monsieur, I trust you know a man by the name of François Saint-Hilaire?"

Georges looked at him oddly, "Why…yes. He is my father. Why?"

As Javert prepared to speak, Éponine observed him closely, fascinated to see how he dealt with people in situations like this. How would he go about telling the man his father had been murdered? Would he be as cold as he always was, or would he break the news gently? She hoped that he would at least exhibit some degree of tact instead of flat-out stating the bitter truth. Still, how could he bear to speak those words aloud and then watch the man fall apart before his very eyes? Passing such a terrible message along must be difficult to do, she mused. Éponine saw Javert's forehead crinkle in thought for a moment, and he pursed his lips ever so slightly. When he finally spoke, his mien was one of apathy, but yet somehow it held a hint of sorrow, for Éponine assumed he certainly took no pleasure in informing people that their loved ones had died before their time, "Monsieur, I regret to inform you that your father, along with a young boy, have been found dead in his residence on rue de la Harpe."

He made a choked sound of horror, but after that the man said nothing for a lengthy minute. His face displayed a series of emotions quick in succession to one another – disbelief, confusion, denial, anger – until he finally settled on sorrow, and Éponine saw in an instant that said sorrow was not feigned. His face crumpled, but he seemed to endeavor to restrain himself in the presence of strangers. Somehow, though Éponine could not fathom how he did it, he managed to choke out, "H-how? Oh God, _how_?"

"It appears that they were killed. There were, however, no signs of a break in, and nothing appears to have been stolen." Javert let out a breath, "I am sorry for your loss, Monsieur Saint-Hilaire."

"A-and you said…you said there was a boy…D…did they kill Charles too? Please God…not him too!" he blurted out, his words scrambled and spoken so fast that they were barely even decipherable.

The Inspector looked down as if faking sorrow for the man's sake, but his tone remained steady, unwavering, "Yes. It appears there was a young boy killed as well." Dazed, the man staggered backward and only just managed to support himself against a wall. The Inspector said nothing for a moment, then told him slowly, "I understand this is a time of bereavement for you, monsieur, but if you could answer some questions about the deceased, it may be of help to us as we look into the murders."

"Yes," the man struggled to speak without his voice breaking on every other word, "Y-yes, come into the parlor please, Inspector."

Before the three of them could walk into the adjacent room, however, a woman's voice sounded out to stop them, "What is going on here, Georges?" A pretty, dark-haired woman with hawk-like features, who appeared to be perhaps a decade Georges' junior, stepped into the foyer, her hands folded neatly in front of her as she took a look at Éponine and Javert. Her voice was high-pitched and quite squeaky as she spoke, "Who are these people? What's wrong?"

As soon as her voice was heard, both the Inspector and Éponine noticed two things: the way Georges stiffened uncomfortably the instant she made herself known, and the disturbingly tranquil air about the woman. She didn't seem panicked at all; she was far too calm, as if she somehow knew the reason they were here. Éponine's eyes followed her closely as she crossed the room in hasty strides and stood beside Georges, linking her arm with his. Once more, Georges did not show any signs that he was happy she was here and instead assumed an even more miserable look upon his face. Éponine looked to Javert who returned her gaze, and, by narrowing her eyes, informed him that she found something off about the woman. He nodded almost imperceptibly in agreement, and then glanced away.

Éponine could hear how hard it was for the man to speak the words aloud, to accept that they were gone, "My father and Charles have been… m-murdered, Geneviève."

Her jaw came unhinged, and then she bit down on her lip hard. Éponine couldn't be certain whether or not her shock was insincere, yet still, she could not shake the thought that something was off about her when the woman breathed, "Murdered? Oh Good God, they were _murdered_? That is…that cannot…"

Georges hushed her, but appeared to be struggling to breathe properly as he gestured to the parlor once more, "Come now. The…the Inspector here wants to ask us some questions. We ought not keep him waiting."

Geneviève nodded and followed Georges – whom Éponine assumed was her husband – to the other room, where the four of them took a seat on two sofas facing one another. Javert pulled a small pad of paper and stubby pencil from his pocket, then placed his eyes firmly on the couple before him, "I assume this is your wife, monsieur?"

The woman took his hand and sewed her fingers in with his. Éponine thought she could see him flinch slightly, but his wife's face remained unchanged, "Yes. Yes, she is."

"Do you have any children?"

The woman perked up somewhat and nodded proudly, "Oh, yes. Our son Henri will be seventeen next month."

"Is he here as well?"

Georges shook his head, "No. But if you wish to speak with him, I'm certain he will find the time."

The ease with which the Inspector came up with and asked his questions impressed Éponine, "What was your father's relation to the boy in his care?"

Georges cleared his throat, his back straightening almost imperceptibly, but not so little that Javert failed to notice. The Inspector also saw a change in the man's wife, and a tiny frown made its way onto her mouth as her husband spoke, "Charles is…was the son of my sister. She passed away a year ago, and we…we told him we would care for him, but my father insisted he do it instead. He…" Georges lost control for a moment, and Éponine felt sorry for him, "He loved that little boy."

Javert allowed Georges a moment of silence, and then continued, "Was there anyone you know of who may have wanted to harm your father?"

"No," he told them honestly, "N-no, everyone loved my father. He was a good Christian, handed out alms to the poor whenever he could. I don't…I don't understand why anyone would want to do this to him."

Finally, the Inspector set down his notepad, locked his eyes onto the pair, and stared at them intently, "Where were you two the day before last?"

They both seemed to realize what he was really asking, and Geneviève narrowed her eyes, "I find it quite rude for you to assume we would do such a horrid thing, Inspector. My husband loved his father dearly, and I never met a more virtuous, caring man in all my life. Perhaps you should be spending your time doing something that will help catch the…the vile person that did this, instead of harassing a family in mourning!"

Her words had little effect on Javert, who responded evenly, "I assure you, madame, we are only looking into every angle we can. We mean no disrespect whatsoever."

"Get out of my house," she hissed, her voice low and venomous. Then, she looped her arm through her distraught husband's once more and pulled him closer, "We should like to grieve alone."

He closed his pad of paper and tucked it into his breast pocket, "Very well then. I should like to speak with your son at his earliest convenience. Until then, farewell, monsieur." He look a long look at the woman called Geneviève then, his analytical eyes sweeping over her with distrust until he nodded at her politely, "Madame."

He then looked to Éponine and beckoned for her to follow him. She did so, and after they were gone from the place, the Inspector growled, "They are hiding something."

She nodded, "When you brought up the little boy… the man looked odd. And his wife looked angry."

Humoring her desire to assist with the investigation, he looked straight ahead as they walked and inquired, "What was your impression of the Madame Saint-Hilaire?"

"She seemed cold," Éponine furrowed her brow, "And she spoke of her son with such pride…but when we spoke of the little boy…Well, she didn't seem terribly sad to learn of his death. I-if she loved her own boy so much, why wouldn't she be sad about that? Wouldn't any mother be sad about a child's death?" The Inspector's head snapped in her direction then – for he had not at all considered such a thing – and she noted the apparent surprise on his face with a grin, "I said I'd be helpful, didn't I?"

"You've yet to prove your helpfulness," he grumbled. The grin stayed plastered on her face, however, and she was wholly undaunted by his words.

"But I will," she declared as they walked off toward the setting sun, twilight beginning to sweep over Paris and envelop it in an orange-yellow embrace, "Just you wait, Inspector. You'll see."


	6. VI

**VI**

* * *

Out of respect, the Inspector gave the family two days to mourn and then returned to their home on the third, in search of the son he had not been able to speak with before. The old man who had been murdered had no family other than his son Georges; his wife had passed on a decade ago, leaving him a widower, and, like Georges had said, his daughter had died a little more than a year ago as well. From what Javert had gathered from the man's neighbors, he had lived a quiet life, rarely leaving the house for reasons other than going to church and buying groceries. The boy Charles had had a private tutor, and, according to the tutor, had fared rather well in his studies and seemed to be a perfectly happy child. The tutor, who seemed genuinely distressed and saddened by the matter, had said he'd never seen the man or the boy angry at one another, and hadn't known a soul in Paris who would have motive to do them harm. They kept to themselves mostly and disturbed nobody, and the tutor could not seem to fathom why they would've been slaughtered so violently. Éponine accompanied Javert as he questioned the victims' acquaintances, and would occasionally tell him of a minuscule detail he'd failed to see, or shed light on a way of thinking he simply did not possess. The Inspector had, at first, regarded her presence as a minor annoyance, but as a few days passed, he began to find it useful to have the point of view of someone who was not an officer, who was not so used to terrible killings like this. It gave him a second pair of eyes with which to watch the potential suspects, a second pair of ears to help discern truth from lies, and though Javert would never admit it, Éponine had not been entirely useless.

Dressed in her green dress and cloak and he in his long, black coat, they arrived at the home of Georges Saint-Hilaire near high noon, and Javert wasted no time in knocking on the door to alert the people inside of his presence. Like he had last time, the butler appeared in the doorway with remarkable promptness, and, upon realizing the identity of the man and girl outside, nodded at Javert, "Greetings, Inspector."

"Is your master here, monsieur?"

He shook his head, "No. I am afraid Monsieur Georges and his wife are out settling his father's affairs. But, when he returns I shall be sure to tell him that you wish to speak with him again."

Before he could close the door, the Inspector's voice cut sharply through the air, "Is your master's son Henri here, by chance?"

The butler hesitated, but told him nonetheless, "Yes. Monsieur Henri is in the study. Shall I fetch him for you?" When Javert nodded, he let the two of them inside and then vanished further into the house. He returned after a moment with a young, pale-faced man in tow, whose sharp features mirrored those of his mother and whose relatively slight build and lack of elegance mirrored that of his father. He approached them rather timidly, as if the strangers at his door had ill intentions toward him.

The Inspector clasped his hands together behind his back and raised his chin, "Hello, monsieur. I assume you have been informed of the death of your grandfather and cousin." Henri nodded, and looked at Javert suspiciously when the other man told him, "I should like to ask you some questions about him, if you'd allow me."

He cleared his throat and shifted his weight from leg to leg, looking from Javert to Éponine and then back to Javert. His edginess did not go undetected by both, "I-I am…not certain if my father would approve of that, Inspector."

In an attempt to persuade him otherwise, Javert put the most encouraging and gentle look he could muster – which did not make him look any less menacing, in truth, "I assure you, monsieur, that he will have no reason to find fault with anything I ask you."

Rather unenthusiastically, the young man complied and made his way into the parlor with Éponine and Javert following close behind. They took a seat on the sofa they'd previously sat on during their visit a few days before with Henri across from them, and the arrangement allowed Éponine to look intently upon the young man for the first time. She mused for a moment just how strongly he resembled his mother, but the noted at that same time that it appeared he shared the bright, blue eyes of his father. He seemed exceptionally twitchy and nervous, and, like she had with his mother, Éponine heard a little voice whispering in her ear, telling her that something was not right about him. Once again, she couldn't pinpoint just what it was, but after she'd been studying him for a few seconds too long, Henri noticed and looked at her strangely, prompting her to glance away as quickly as she could and focus her eyes on the ground instead.

The Inspector dove into his chain of inquiries straightaway, almost as soon as he had situated himself comfortably on the sofa, "How often did you and your father see your grandfather?"

"We used to see him quite a lot," Henri said, "But…then he took in my… cousin, Charles, and we didn't visit as often."

The Inspector jotted down a brief note, "Why was that?"

"My father didn't want to," he cleared his throat and murmured. After glancing sideways at Javert, she could see he found his behavior just as peculiar as she did, but he asked no more questions about the matter, for he knew if he did, the boy might shut down and refuse to answer him at all.

"Now," Javert told him, "Pardon my candor, monsieur, but do your parents have a happy marriage?"

The boy answered a bit too quickly, "Yes. Yes, to the best of my knowledge they do."

"And did you and your cousin know one another well?"

There was a sudden fire in his eyes; a deep, burning inferno that made him look quite like he was off his rocker. However, despite this, he answered astonishingly coolly, "No, monsieur. I am… afraid we did not get the chance to become well acquainted, before-"

"What on earth is going on here?" The high-pitched, grating voice of Geneviève, the Madame Saint-Hilaire, cut off the young man and brought the room to silence. With Georges following closely behind her, she stormed into the parlor and stared Javert down threateningly, "I did not give my consent for you to question my son, Inspector."

"I assure you I did not force him to divulge any information he did not want to, madame," Javert replied in an even tone, rising to his feet as he sensed he would be given no more time to speak with Henri, "Whatever answers he gave he gave of his own free will."

The woman moved closer to Javert, sticking her round, angry face close to his, "You will leave my house this instant. Henri will answer no more of your _questions_. You clearly mean to pin this crime on us – _us_! A family grieving for the loss of a man and a child we _loved_! Mark my words, Inspector," she hissed, "I will see to it you'll soon find yourself out of a job on account of this!"

He clenched his jaw, livid but not expressing it in any way. He looked her in the eyes fearlessly, "I apologize for any distress I may have brought upon your family during this difficult time. Farewell."

Stunned by everything since it'd happened so fast, Éponine hurried after Javert in a sort of daze. Just as they reached the door where the woman's husband, Georges, was standing, however, she stopped walking all of a sudden, a memory suddenly coming to mind out of nowhere. She thought of the little boy's face the day Javert had taken her to the scene of the crime, and realized that the man bore remarkable resemblance to him. From what Georges had told Javert, he was the boy's uncle, but Éponine could not help but wonder if the blood connection ran deeper than that, so remarkable were the similarities between them. She could recall the boy's bright blue eyes with clarity, and she found that Georges' eyes were nearly identical to those of Charles. Their hair was also the same, lying in soft, blonde curls on both their heads. The boy's face had been heart-shaped, and when she searched Georges' features once more, she found his had the same endearing softness to it. Why, she thought for a moment, Charles had looked rather like the man's son – not his nephew. Her mouth fell agape at that realization, but before she could think on it any more, Javert ushered her out of the home and back into the street to prevent her from looking like an utter fool.

The Inspector was far from oblivious to her sudden surprise, and once they were far out of earshot of the people inside, demanded, "What is it?"

"The man and the boy…" she shook her head with a gulp, "They look alike."

"That is only logical," he said, "They are related."

"No. No, it's more than that," Éponine insisted. She stopped walking, prompting him to do the same, "I know he's supposed to be his uncle, but he looked as though he could be…his son. They look like father and son, don't they?" The Inspector looked at her as though he thought her suggestion absurd, and so she endeavored to persuade him otherwise, "A-and his wife, she seemed so…angry when talking about him, and Monsieur Saint-Hilaire looked uncomfortable. What if he was the child of an affair? W-what if his wife found out and that's why he was killed?"

Impressed by her intuition yet still remaining highly skeptical, he said only, "That is idle speculation. There is no evidence to support such a claim."

Éponine, convinced she was right, grinned and perked up, eager to prove herself to him, "Then I suppose we'll have to find some, won't we?" She thought for a moment, then wondered, "Is that woman really going to get you in trouble?"

He had to keep himself from scoffing at the thought, "If I received disciplinary action every time I angered a suspect, I would've been out of work many years ago, mademoiselle."

* * *

Since Éponine's hunches had proved somewhat useful to him in the past, the Inspector agreed to her request that they follow Georges for a few days to gather evidence, in the hopes he would lead them somewhere that would help them solve the case and uncover the apparent mystery of Charles' paternity. For two nights they followed him yet came up with nothing, for the man only ventured to a church to plan his father and nephew's funeral and then back to his home. On the third night, however – just when the Inspector was growing ready to give up watching Monsieur Saint-Hilaire – Éponine's hunches turned out to be quite correct.

They crouched by the gate near the side of his house in silence, barely ever sparing one another a glance and enduring the tedious task of waiting as best they could. An hour before midnight, they noticed the front door open and watched as Monsieur Saint-Hilaire stepped outside, dressed in a coat and hat that obscured the majority of his face from sight. He then began walking down the road, and so Éponine and Javert took off stealthily after him, staying a safe distance away but not so much so that they would lose him if he turned a corner unexpectedly. They walked for a while, and the further they went, the poorer and more dilapidated the buildings around them became. Though they weren't in the slums just yet, they were nearing the area where the lower end of the middle class lived – the unskilled laborers and factory workers, mostly. Neither the Inspector nor Éponine could fathom why he – a man of considerable wealth and station – would have business here, but still, they did not give up the chase.

Eventually, Georges reached what appeared to be a tenement house and stepped inside. Javert motioned for Éponine to wait a moment before going inside as well, and after a moment had passed, they slipped into the door as well just in time to hear Georges finish climbing two flights of stairs to the next story. As noiselessly as they could manage, they too ascended the stairs and hid quietly around a corner when they saw Georges stop and raise his hand to knock on the door of one of the apartments. Since she was smaller and her presence less conspicuous, Éponine poked her head out, watching in silence as the door came open and a pretty, blonde woman wearing a ratty dress stepped out. Through the moonlight, Éponine could see there were tears in Georges' eyes, and the woman seemed to notice them as well.

"Georges…" her voice was light and tender, as soft as a whisper though she was not whispering. The way she spoke his name made it clear to Éponine that they were well acquainted, "Georges, what's the matter?"

"Marie," his voice was desperate as the woman walked towards him and placed a gentle hand on his cheek, drawing him closer to her, "Marie…o-our boy. Our Charles…"

Fearing the worst, tears formed in Marie's eyes as well, "What? W-what, Georges, tell me-"

"He's dead," Georges choked out finally. A sob escaped his lips before he could suppress it, "H-he was killed."

The young woman clasped a hand over her mouth, too horrified to remember to invite him inside, and before she could say anything else, she fell into the man's arms, weeping, her shoulders trembling visibly. Éponine couldn't see the look on her face in the thickness of the night, but she could tell by the sound of the woman's loud, hoarse sobs that she had been right, that the little boy Charles had been the child of an affair – an affair between Georges and this poor blonde woman called Marie. Éponine thought for a moment that she should be pleased with herself for figuring this whole thing out, but all she felt was overwhelming sorrow for the couple before her – no pride, no satisfaction. It was apparent in the way he'd said her name that Georges was in love with this woman, despite the fact that he was married and had a child already, and the couple's grief at the loss of their boy, born out of forbidden but true love, made Éponine want to cry with them.

She bit her lip as Marie gathered herself enough to let Georges inside and close the door, but even then, their broken cries were still audible for Éponine and Javert in the hallway. The Inspector listened to them in silence, and when Éponine looked to him with tears in her eyes herself, he felt a hint of pity for the two of them, though he normally never felt anything for the families of victims. He'd learned years ago that he could not become emotionally attached to cases. Doing so would only blind him and hinder his efforts in an investigation, and that was not something he was willing to allow. He supposed that it was perhaps Éponine's passion for the case that had made him feel sorry for the man Georges and his lover Marie; otherwise, he would've thought the two of them fools for committing the sin of adultery in the first place and giving life to an illegitimate child.

After the couple's tears had died down, the Inspector stood and nodded for Éponine to do so as well. Then, they crept quietly back down the stairs and out the door. Once they were in the street, Javert exhaled slowly and admitted, "You were right."

Without a word, she closed her eyes, bit her lip, and at that moment, wished she wasn't, "Yes. I was."

Throwing Marie and Georges' anguish from his mind, Javert clenched his jaw and put his mind on other matters, taking out his notepad and beginning to write once more, "It would be logical to suspect it was the wife. Perhaps somehow she discovered the boy in her father-in-law's care was her husband's bastard child and arranged to have him killed."

"W-why would she have her husband's father killed too?" she asked.

"Perhaps she was angry at him for knowing and not telling her. Or perhaps…" he took a deep breath, "The old man was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Éponine felt another potent wave of sadness, for that possibility made the old mans' death even more tragic. She shook the feeling off, though, and swallowed, "What will we do now?"

"Now," he told her, his eyes fixed straight ahead, "we will return to the station. And in the morning, we will summon the Saint-Hilaire family and speak with them. God willing, we will find out who committed the murders, and bring justice to the victims."

* * *

As he'd said he would, the Inspector had the family brought down to the station at ten o' clock the next morning. Javert elected to speak with Georges first, and so the man was put in a room by himself for questioning lest his wife try to interfere with the proceedings. After he'd been waiting for a while, the Inspector entered with Éponine, who had, once again, had to do a great deal of protesting for him to allow her to be present. As she'd made it more and more obvious to Javert that she was far more intelligent than she looked, he'd been finding it increasingly harder to treat her as the street scum he'd once deemed her, and though he cursed himself for doing so, the Inspector determined it would hurt no one if she was allowed to sit in on the questioning like she wanted.

"Hello, Monsieur Saint-Hilaire," Javert greeted as they took their seats before him. Éponine adjusted her posture to match that of Javert and Georges, suddenly feeling quite insignificant in terms of stature compared to the two of them.

The man's eyes were puffy and pink, and Éponine thought he looked like he'd probably cried himself to sleep last night. When he spoke, his voice sounded defeated, hollow, "I don't know what you want from me. I-I've told you everything I know."

Javert flattened his lips into a grim line, "You neglected to mention, however, that Charles was not indeed your nephew at all." Georges looked taken aback. "Your sister never had any children, did she?" Slowly, the distraught man nodded. "The boy Charles was _your _son, was he not?" Again, Georges only nodded, feeling very much like a stupid child who'd been caught disobeying his parents. Javert folded his hands on the table, "Tell me the truth, Monsieur Saint-Hilaire. There is no point in trying to hide it now."

"Very well," he took a shaky breath, "I met Marie – Charles' mother – six years ago, when she was working at her father's bookstore. We…we were only friends at first, and you must understand, Inspector, I did not intend to be unfaithful to my wife, but I…" His voice twisted, his features growing dark and ugly, "She is a cold woman, Geneviève. And Marie was anything but. So we…"

When he drifted off, Javert filled in the blanks without difficulty, "You two began an affair."

Georges nodded, "Yes. Everything was…_wonderful_. We met in her apartment at night, so no one would grow suspicious. And then after a year…she told me she was with child." He sucked in a sharp breath, "We didn't know what to do, so she hid the pregnancy and gave birth in secret. At first she told me she intended to give Charles away, but we both…got so attached, and we loved him too much to do it. I knew Marie didn't have enough money to support a child, so I took him to my father. He was lonely after my mother's passing, and he fell in love with him just as I had." Once again, he spoke of his wife, and he took on a totally different countenance, "I told my wife that Father had found him whilst giving alms to the poor and taken him home. She believed me, and didn't ask any questions at first. Then… two weeks ago, I was discussing Charles' education and future with my father, and I suppose she…she somehow figured out he was my son. She went off on a rampage, threatened to kill Charles and Marie and my father for keeping it from her."

Javert narrowed his eyes, "Did she hire someone to kill Charles and your father?"

"I don't know," Georges said honestly, shaking his head.

Éponine could see that he was beginning to dissolve into tears, into a place where he would not be able to articulate proper words any longer, and so she spoke up, her voice mild and warm in a way Javert's could never be, "Do you think she did, monsieur?"

Surprised, as it was the first time he'd heard her speak, Georges hesitated, but eventually admitted, "Yes. I-I think she did."

The Inspector remained silent for a moment, then dismissed the sniffling mess of a man from the room, "You may go, Monsieur Saint-Hilaire. Thank you for your time." The man nodded and quit the place, leaving Éponine and the Inspector alone for a moment as they waited for Georges' wife to be brought in next.

"I had told you not to speak," he growled as soon as they were alone.

Instead of being frightened, she was almost amused by him, "You're not always a very gentle confessor, monsieur. Everyone needs a little gentleness when they're scared."

He was about to open his mouth to respond when the Madame Saint-Hilaire walked in, her shoulders squared and her head held high as though she was of the highest nobility in the land. Without bothering to greet the other occupants of the room, she took a seat and eyed them coldly, then moved her eyes to look only at Javert, who wasted no time with formalities either, "I have come to believe you are aware, madame, that the boy Charles was not, in fact, an orphan taken in by your father-in-law."

Geneviève looked surprised, seemed to debate whether or not to put on a façade of shock, but finally said, "Yes I am. Only a few weeks ago I overheard my husband and his father talking about the boy. I'd had my suspicions that Georges had been having an affair, but wasn't certain until then."

"Your husband told me that you threatened to kill them. Is that true?"

"That is indeed true, Inspector."

Lines of thought cut into his forehead, and then he told her slowly, as if speaking to a child, "Certainly you are aware that makes you look guilty."

"Exactly," she looked and Javert and said, without even a trace of uneasiness or hesitation, "That is because I am guilty."

For a moment, Javert was almost caught off guard – something that rarely happened to him anymore – but he recovered with haste, "You are confessing to the murders of François and Charles Saint-Hilaire?" The woman seemed to think she'd fooled Javert, but he was quick to prove her wrong. He clasped his hands together on the table and leaned forward slightly, "Tell me, madame, who are you protecting?"

He saw the shock that ran across her face before disappearing just as quickly, and it confirmed his suspicions without a sound. She resumed the composed air about her in a second's notice, however, "No one. I am simply making your job easier, Inspector, and getting this weighty burden off of my shoulders. It hasn't been easy on my conscience, you know."

The Inspector realized with haste that she was not telling him the truth, but he also knew that, even if he thought she hadn't done it, protocol mandated that he take her in and investigate her claims further, even if she would only be released later due to a lack of evidence. He ground his teeth together and got to his feet, but did not bother handcuffing her, for, because of her slight build, she was not much of a menace to any of Javert's officers, "Very well then. You are under arrest for the murders of François and Charles Saint-Hilaire-"

"I know what my crime is," she told him calmly, "You do not need to remind me, Inspector."

Clenching his jaw tightly in frustration, he left the room briefly to hand her off to one of his men, and then returned to Éponine a minute later.

As soon as he did, she shot out of the chair and shook her head, baffled, "W-why did you do that?"

"She confessed," he answered shortly, "Therefore, she must be arrested, and her involvement further looked into."

"But…you know she didn't do it! Couldn't you see, she was lying-"

"Of course I could see she was lying," he snapped, "She is covering for someone else. Someone she cares for enough to risk time in prison to protect."

It all hit her at once, then, and nearly brought her to her knees. Who was the only person the Madame Saint-Hilaire seemed truly affectionate towards? Who had she nearly ripped Javert's head off to defend? Shaking her head, she murmured the answer to her own questions aloud, "Her son."

Javert's head jerked sideways to glance in her direction, "What?"

"That's who she's protecting: her son! You remember how she acted when talking about him, how happy she was! Y-you have to get him to talk-"

"And what if he's innocent and I falsely accuse him of murder?" he shot back, "These people are not common criminals and I cannot treat them as such."

"Then I'll do it. I-I can ask the questions!"

"You are not an officer," his voice grew dangerously low, and before he thought his words over, spat, "You're just a foolish child."

Éponine opened her mouth to say something in reply, but the words died on her tongue before they could be spoken. Her mouth snapped shut, and her shoulders slumped. For some reason, Éponine had begun to imagine that, over the course of the past few days, he'd begun to regard her as something more than just an informant, more than a person who was only occasionally useful to him. Perhaps she'd thought her keen observational skills had fostered some respect for her within him, and the bitter truth hit her hard when he spoke those words. He still thought of her with no more reverence than he had before, and though she wasn't certain why, Éponine felt utterly crushed and defeated by the fact. She bit her lip and tore her eyes from the Inspector's, and was about to make her way toward the door when they heard what sounded like shouting outside. In a moment's notice, Javert sprang into action, exiting the room and finding several officers restraining Henri, the Saint-Hilaire's son, outside in the hallway. His mother was stood nearby with two officers on either side of her, and, once Éponine appeared in the hallway beside Javert, she thought that it was probable Henri had just been told of his mother's confession.

"Inspector," the young man exclaimed once Javert came into view, "Inspector, you must let my mother go!"

"Stop, Henri," Madame Saint-Hilaire warned him, but he paid no heed.

The Inspector stepped forward, "I fear cannot let your mother go, monsieur. She has confessed to murdering your cousin and grandfather, and must face the legal consequences of her actions."

"It was not her!" he blurted out, bringing the room into complete, deafening silence, "I-it was me. I killed them."

Javert closed his eyes, and swore he could nearly hear Éponine's voice singing '_I told you so_,' in his ear. After a minute, he motioned for his men to bring the boy into the interrogation room and cuff him there, rendering him unable to escape – though Javert knew it would be unlikely that he would try. Once he was secured, Éponine took a seat beside Javert as the officers left and bit her lip, struggling not to reach out and slap the young man before her, or scream at him for being such a cold-blooded monster.

"You must let my mother go," Henri told them again, seemingly unaware that his confession would exonerate his mother yet condemn himself, "It was not her who killed them. It was me."

Before she could remember to hold her tongue, Éponine demanded, "Why? Why would you do that?"

Javert said nothing, for that was precisely what he wanted to know as well.

"My mother came to me the night she found out about that little vermin," he spat, "She was in tears, cursing my father and that _slut_ of his. I didn't want her to be forced to see my father's bastard every time we had to see Grandfather. It wouldn't be fair. I did this for her. S-surely you can understand that, Inspector."

"Was it under her orders that you committed these murders, monsieur?" Javert inquired. Henri shook his head.

"No. My mother would have only grinned and bore it gracefully." He paused, then rasped, "But I made certain she didn't have to. I did the right thing. I rid the world of my father's _mistake_."

The Inspector scowled, "What reason had you for killing your grandfather as well?"

"The old man saw me. He only would've gotten in the way," Henri bit out caustically, "He needed to go. I had no other choice." His fury seemed to melt away the moment Javert stood, revealing his impressive height, and the young man suddenly seemed very small before them, like a frightened child, "W-what'll happen now? What shall I do?"

The Inspector strode over beside him, then snarled in disgust at the pathetic, sniveling boy, "You will be escorted to your holding cell until you are to face the court. And if you were wise, boy…" he narrowed his eyes, "you would pray for our Lord to have mercy on your immortal soul."

* * *

The day of Charles and François Saint-Hilaire's funerals was a mild one; not too hot, but not too cold seeing as winter was coming on quickly. Though Javert would normally never dare attend the burial of a victim whose case he'd worked on, Éponine had insisted, and once she'd set her mind on it, he hadn't heard the end of her pestering until he'd finally bent to her will and agreed to accompany her. They wore the clothes they usually wore undercover since neither owned anything else that was black: she in her long, dark cloak and he in his greatcoat. They had chosen not to come to the service at the church and instead only showed their faces at the cemetery where the boy and old man were to be laid to eternal rest. As the mourners gathered around the grave, Éponine and the Inspector hung near the back of the small crowd and listened as the priest began to speak, leading the people in a prayer and talking about the deceased for a brief moment. Once he was finished, he stepped away and allowed the mourners to walk by the coffins slowly, paying their last respects to two souls taken before their time. The pair did not advance at first, but when they began to, Éponine bit her lip once she saw the small coffin in which Charles rested. It was white – as was the norm for most children who passed – and she couldn't help but feel sickened by the innocent color, by the idea that a boy whose only fault was being born out of wedlock had been punished in such a gruesome, unfair manner.

After most of the people had cleared out and dried their tears, Éponine and Javert finally made their way toward the coffins, to where Georges and the woman Marie were standing, struggling and occasionally failing to keep their composure. Upon seeing them approach, the blonde woman looked up at the Inspector and asked, "A-are you the man Georges told me of? The inspector, w-who solved the case?"

"Yes, mademoiselle."

She clasped her gloved hands around his tightly, tears glistening in her eyes, "God bless you, Inspector. Y-you've gotten justice for them in death…though they couldn't have it in life. Thank you."

Stunned slightly by having such kind words spoken to him, he remained motionless for a moment until he remembered himself and nodded at Marie, then turned away to find Éponine. He noticed her standing over one of the coffins – the small, white one that held the little boy. Without a word, he took his place beside her and did not intrude upon her apparent reverie. He knew she'd grown attached to the case and to the idea of finding the killer, and now that it was all over, she didn't seem to know what to do with herself, how to feel about the little boy and old man.

"It isn't fair," she said suddenly as she placed a hand on the coffin, closing her eyes and hoping that God would find his soul quickly and take him to heaven.

"Death is part of life," he remarked, "It is something we all must face."

"Perhaps," she willed away the liquid sorrow from her eyes, but it returned without fail, "But surely… i-it's not meant to come so soon."

They remained another few minutes in silence, and then Javert told her, "We should be on our way." Éponine let out a trembling breath and nodded her assent, following the Inspector as he headed in the direction of the gate to leave the graveyard. As they walked, he finally forced himself to speak the half-hearted apology he'd put off giving. His voice was no quieter or kinder than it normally was, but when he spoke, the words were perhaps the mildest she'd ever heard him say, "I should not have called you a foolish child. You played an important role in the investigation, and for that I suppose I should commend you."

She raised her eyebrows at his praise, "Thank you."

"I was not commending you," he reminded her brusquely, to ensure that she did not receive the wrong message, "I was simply saying that I should."

Éponine let out a quiet laugh at his obstinate refusal to allow her to think herself useful, but neither she nor the Inspector spoke another word as they made their way out of the graveyard and back into the streets. Once they returned to the police station, and she went to her room and he to his office, they returned to their separate lives. He completed his paperwork, and she wandered around the station. He went on patrol, and she stayed in her little room, reading the dusty old Bible one kind officer had given her.

Yet all the while, she thought of him, and – even though she only remained within his mind for the most fleeting of moments, like a half-forgotten thought only just barely recalled – Javert thought of her, as well.


	7. VII

**Note: **If you haven't seen already, I've begun another E/J fic that is just going to be a series of dirty, M-rated oneshots. I won't be updating it as often as I update this, but I hope you will take a look if you're interested.

* * *

**VII**

* * *

After solving the Saint-Hilaire murders, Éponine hardly even caught a glimpse of Javert for two weeks, and they returned to their separate lives once more, with the Inspector engrossed in his work and Éponine forced into the wretched state of loneliness she'd been in before. There was little she could occupy herself with, and she spent most of her days thinking, her mind wandering to places far away. She'd always been a thinker, she supposed. Thinking could be her escape, and she could live in another world entirely, a world where she had everything she wanted, and was never cold or hungry. However, instead of daydreaming idly about living in a fancy castle as she so often had done before, she found her thoughts grounded to reality, to her current situation and employment under Javert. As she sat on her windowsill one afternoon, she let her mind wander like she often had before, and found that, no matter how hard she tried to prevent it, her thoughts always ended up on Javert, regardless of where they started. She never ceased to wonder about him, and more than anything else, she was intrigued by him. She'd been raised to fear the Inspector, yet now, she was closer to him than she'd ever imagined she would be, working alongside him. He'd been somewhat kind to her, of course, but always maintained a distinct coldness about him, ensuring that she was not permitted to think she'd been overly useful or proved her worth to him. It seemed she was endlessly trying and failing to earn his approval, and it was starting to tire Éponine.

For a moment she wondered why she stayed here, helping the law when she should be trying to avoid it. The money was wonderful, yes, and having a warm bed and fire free of cost would be a great relief for Éponine in the coming winter, but even if she didn't have any of those things, she still wasn't certain she'd leave and refuse to help Javert. There was a satisfaction that came when solving a case, uncovering a mystery, and it was a rush unlike any that Éponine had ever felt before. She thought, then, that she was perhaps beginning to understand Javert's passion for justice, but she still failed to understand the man himself, and though she knew it might not be wise to try, she wanted to. She wanted to do what maybe no one had ever done before: understand him, decode him as though he were some impossible riddle. There were so many things she didn't know about him, things that fascinated her. Was his lack of emotion genuine? Did he actually not feel a thing, or did he feel but not express it in any way? The questions were endless and entirely without answers – and even though she didn't understand why, she wanted answers.

The days had crept by slowly, and Paris had grown colder and colder as November prepared to draw to a close and usher in December. As the Parisian citizens stayed indoors more and more, the frequency of crime had dropped substantially, leaving both the Inspector and Éponine with little to do on most days. As she sat on her windowsill and looked out at the street in front of the station to watch for passersby, Éponine saw Javert and a few of his officers approach with what appeared to be two men in chains behind them. Though she couldn't hear what they were saying, she watched as Javert motioned for his subordinates to take the felons inside, leaving him by himself in the street as a light snow began to fall to the ground around him, littering his greying hair with little white flecks. All he did, then, was stand there looking out upon the city, watching quietly, without a word, and Éponine thought that he appeared to be quite a lonely, solitary figure at that instant. Deep in thought as he appeared to be, Javert did not look her way, but from her position, she could see his profile, could see the sharp edges of his face and the ice-cold look in his eyes. After a minute, he turned and reentered the police station as though his abrupt moment of silence had never happened. She felt a sudden, powerful urge to know what he had been thinking. He was perhaps the most enigmatic person she'd ever met, and once more, she felt the need to understand him arise, abruptly.

Though she didn't quite know what she intended to do once she got there, Éponine got to her feet and scurried down the hallway until she came upon him as he was just about to step into his office. As soon as he took notice of her, her feet grinded to a halt, and for a moment, she had absolutely no idea what to do or what she intended to say. After she'd been staring at him without a sound for what seemed to be the longest minute in the world, he scowled and began to advance into his office, fully inclined to ignore her presence altogether. However, an idea sprang into her mind out of nowhere, and she started toward him just as he began to disappear through his doorway.

Upon hearing her soft footsteps following him, he turned around once he was standing the middle of his office and demanded with an irritated sigh that told her he was clearly not in the best of moods, "What do you need, mademoiselle?"

She hesitated, her voice catching in her throat, but she eventually recovered it and asked him quietly, "A-are you busy, Inspector?"

Though he wasn't particularly so at the moment, he couldn't be certain if something would come up and he would be needed, so he told her, "Yes. I am."

She bit her lip and stepped forward ever so slightly, "But surely…you can get away for a few hours."

"No, I cannot. I have work to do." He strode over to his desk and, within a second's notice, had taken a seat and buried himself into his paperwork. Out of his peripheral vision, he did not see her move an inch. He clenched his jaw, but did not spare her a glance, "What is so urgent that it cannot wait?"

"I don't know," she shrugged, "You look like you need to get away for a little while."

Javert thought for a moment that escaping his cramped office seemed a pleasant idea, but ultimately said, "I assure you, mademoiselle, I will survive."

"Please?" she murmured softly, putting on the most pleading expression she could muster, "There's something I want to show you."

"Whatever it is, I'm certain it will not disappear before I have the time to see it."

At a loss for what else to say, she stood there in silence for a moment, her arms folded over her chest. Finally, she sauntered over to his desk, rather daringly picked up his hat, and then made her way towards the door, as though she had not done anything out of the ordinary. Bewildered, the Inspector looked up from his work just in time to see her vanish out the door, his hat in hand, and he ground his teeth together, but was forced to ponder the fact that the girl was quite good at getting whatever she wanted from him. Grabbing his coat and pulling it on, he made all haste after Éponine when he came upon her standing at the door that led outside, holding his hat in her hands with a little grin on her face. Just as he started towards her, however, she opened the door and hurried outside, and, with a growl, he followed her. He found her moments later, standing in the street and wearing his hat on her head. Since it was far too big for her, it slid down around her forehead and half-concealed one of her eyes, and she looked rather like a child playing dress-up with clothing that was too large for her.

He snarled, stalked over to Éponine, and grabbed the hat off her head, "Give me that." After dusting it off and placing it upon his own head, he looked to her once again and spat, "What is so imperative for me to see?"

Smiling, she realized that, though he had no explicitly said it, he intended to go with her, and she told him, "I'll show you. Follow me." They'd only walked for a short minute when she spoke up once more, eyeing his hat with amusement dancing in her eyes, "Why must you wear that hat anyway, Inspector?"

"It is part of my uniform," he told her shortly, and she chortled.

"I think it looks quite stupid," she told him honestly, earning a glare from him.

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes and instead changed the subject, "It is unwise for you to be seen with me. If you are to be my informant, people cannot know you are working for me." In reply, she said nothing, for she knew he was right, and once more, Javert grumbled, "I demand to know where we are going."

She thought for a moment, then asked, "Do you ever give alms to the poor, Inspector?"

"No," he said tersely, "Beggars ought to learn to work for their money, instead of relying on charity to buy their bread."

She furrowed her eyebrows, "But… what if they don't have a choice?"

"They always have a choice." He stopped speaking to take a deep breath, then bit out, "I was born into poverty and I did not become a criminal. If the poor truly wanted to break free of their circumstances, they are perfectly capable of doing so. A vagrant on the street is nothing more than a man who has made the conscious decision to persist in his wretchedness."

Surprised, Éponine stared at him, for that was perhaps the most emphatically she'd ever heard him speak. Even though it'd been brief and vague, the tiny morsel of information about his past shocked her as well. Éponine failed to realize how intently she was eyeing him, but even when Javert looked at her out of the corner of his eye and their gazes became entangled, she did not look away. Instead, they only observed each other for a moment mutely, until the Inspector grew slightly uneasy about being watched so closely and looked away. Eventually, she glanced away too, but his words kept replaying themselves in her mind, like an echo that refused to cease. He'd been poor once, just like her, and yet he'd somehow overcome it and became what he was now. Éponine supposed it was a testament to just how unwavering and dedicated he was, but still, she could not help but wonder about what, exactly, his life had been like before. It was with these thoughts swirling in her mind that she continued to lead him down the dark Paris streets in the night, farther and farther away from Saint-Michel and the area in which Javert was rather well-known.

Eventually, they reached a part of the city Javert was not overly familiar with, and when Éponine stopped in front of a large, three story building he did not recognize, he narrowed his eyes, "What is this?"

All around the perimeter of the place and on the steps in front of it, there were children of various ages: babies, toddlers, children, and even a few teenagers. Javert noticed that there was not a single one of them who was not filthy or malnourished, and all of their eyes were sunken in, desolate even at their young ages. A few young children were holding babies and toddlers in their laps, leading the Inspector to believe that there appeared to be many siblings in this place. Upon seeing two people in reasonably nice clothing, a few children reached out and grabbed onto Javert's coat and Éponine dress with their grubby fingers. Though the Inspector did not make it known to her, Éponine could tell that, somewhere deep within him, he pitied the children, while she herself felt a smothering kind of grief upon seeing all these miserable youths, just barely introduced to the world and already thrusted into such melancholy.

"It's an orphanage. I-I've been by here a few times before. There's not enough space for some of the children inside, so they have to put them out on the street," she told him, her voice low and shaky. After reaching into her pocket, withdrawing a franc or two, and pressing them into a child of not more than four or five's hand, she stood and walked over to Javert. She pressed her lips into a grave line, "Do these children have a choice, Inspector?"

The Inspector's face remained inexpressive, but he could not help but consider that, perhaps, she was right. He cleared his throat, but just as he started to walk away from the place, he felt a fragile hand grasp onto his coat and pull it backward. He turned slowly, and when he did, his eyes found those of a young girl who appeared to be no more than eleven, huddled against a brick wall, trembling. She reached out her hands, her blue eyes wide and hopeful, and asked in a small voice, "C-could you spare any money, monsieur? Please…" her voice caught in her throat, "I-I haven't eaten in a long time."

The Inspector almost could not recall the last time he'd been so sickened by poverty and its effects on the innocent. Having been in Paris for many years, he'd become used to seeing dirty, filthy children on the streets, but normally, he avoided them, for they tended to remind him of himself, of his wasted childhood. At that moment, so perplexed by the sudden rush of emotion through him as he was, Javert could only manage to do what he knew how to do: shun this poor child, pretend that he had never heard her speak to begin with. He knew he could not feel sorry for these children. He simply could not feel anything at all, and he could not begin to pity the poor. It was with this in mind that he yanked his coat out of the girl's light grasp and stormed away. As he stalked in the other direction, he heard Éponine scurry over to the girl, apologize for his sake, hand her a bit of money, and then scamper after him to catch up.

Once she was beside him once more, she scowled, her cheeks flushed with anger, "Why did you do that?" Javert did, of course, not intend to tell her the truth: that he did not want to face such poverty, that he would rather know it existed but not acknowledge it in any way. The Inspector said nothing, keeping his eyes on the street ahead and not daring to glance in her direction. She exhaled angrily, "That was quite cruel." Again, he refused to answer. "It isn't their fault, you know. They're just children."

"I am aware of that," he told her, "It is through the fault of the parents that children are stricken by poverty." He clasped his hands tightly behind his back, "It is a vicious cycle. But it is not insurmountable."

They walked for a little while longer until they reached Pont-au-Change, and it was there that the Inspector stopped walking, approaching the parapet and placing both his hands on it. Éponine stopped as well and stood beside him, thinking over the past few minutes and realizing that it was perhaps the most she'd ever heard him say. As was the norm for the two of them, they did not speak to one another at first, and Éponine simply looked down into the Seine, listening as its waters churned and swirled furiously beneath them. She leaned her chin on one of her hands and shivered as a cold breeze blew through, for she hadn't thought to bring her cloak and was not very comfortable in her thin dress. Éponine hugged her arms to her chest and let out a sigh, closing her eyes and letting the sound of the rushing waters envelop her mind, dull her senses. It was rather relaxing up here, she thought, and even Javert seemed somewhat more at ease.

"Do you come here to think?" she wondered aloud as a strand of her dark hair blew in front of her eyes. He nodded, and she let out another contented sigh, "It's quite nice, isn't it? Away from other people, away from…everything." Though the Inspector did not say anything, Éponine could tell that he agreed with her. All of a sudden, she inquired, "What do you dream about, Inspector?"

He eyed her strangely, not having anticipated such a question, then cleared his throat and replied, "I do not dream."

"You don't? Then… what do you think about when you sleep?"

"Nothing," he grunted, and she thought it sounded as though he was not really listening to her, "When I sleep I am asleep."

At last, she glanced his way, only to find that his eyes were no longer on the river but on the heavens above, shining down with what seemed to Éponine to be an endless number of stars. He gazed upon the stars more attentively than Éponine had ever seen him gaze upon anything else, and in that moment, she thought he didn't look quite as intimidating as he usually did. He looked almost as though he could be any other man, just like he'd looked the night Patron-Minette had captured and beaten him. Perhaps he was not so entirely cold and heartless, and she thought that, perhaps, at times, signs that he was indeed a human could peak through his stony exterior, like rays of sunlight shining through a storm cloud. She hadn't seen any such signs often, but the thought that they occurred at all – even if they were of the utmost rarity – was enough for her. Éponine looked up to the night sky as well, then, and squinted to see if she could make out any constellations. She hadn't looked at the stars in years, really, but back in Montfermeil, when she'd been a carefree child with not a single care in the world, she'd looked at the stars often, and had even received a book with drawings of various constellations for her birthday one year. She wasn't certain just how much she would remember about the stars, but when she looked up, she swore she could see Orion, and then, just to the left of it, another constellation she'd forgotten the name of.

"Is that Orion?" she murmured curiously.

Uncertain he'd heard her correctly, Javert looked her way and frowned, "What?"

"That. There." Without really thinking, she grabbed his hand all of a sudden and guided it up toward the sky with hers, in an attempt to demonstrate what she was talking about, "Isn't that Orion?"

Unsettled by the sudden closeness to Éponine, he shifted slightly on his feet, but corrected her nonetheless, "No. That is Lepus. Orion is above it." Their hands and arms still entwined, he pointed upwards slightly, moving her hand with his as he did so. Once he was satisfied that he'd located Orion, he told her, "It is there."

"I think I see it," she remarked cheerfully, but the smile fell from her lips once she realized their alarming proximity to one another. She gulped, and she felt her breath hitch in her throat for a few seconds, making her quite lightheaded. Her hand dropped back down to rest down on the parapet, and, just as disconcerted as she was, he allowed his to do the same, pulling away from her and tearing his eyes from hers. He'd not been so close to any human being in a long while, and so he did not hesitate to move away and throw the whole, uncomfortable situation from his mind. He straightened his back and raised his chin, assuming an air of authority about him once more.

"We should not stay here any longer," he said, "If the criminals around here find out you are associating with me, you will not last long working undercover."

That made perfect sense to her, and so, shaking off the unnerving feeling festering within the pit of her stomach, she made to follow him when he began to walk across the bridge, in the direction of the station. After strolling along for a few minutes, he led her down a side street almost completely cloaked by darkness in order to arrive at their destination quicker. There were numerous homeless people lining the sides of it, shivering on the cobblestones, their brittle bones rattling almost audibly in the frigid night. Upon seeing Javert approach, most of them shrank away even if they didn't know who he was, for he gave off such a menacing and unfriendly air that they somehow knew not to dare to ask him for money. Éponine followed close behind him, and, seeing she was in the company of the man with the cold eyes, no one dared to ask her for a few sous, either. However, just as they were approaching the end of the street and preparing to turn onto another, the Inspector felt a hand tug gently on his coat. He turned all at once, prompting the person – an old, bald man with rotting teeth and yellowed skin – to cower in fear for a moment.

"Please, monsieur," he wheezed, "Haven't had a scrap of food for days. Take pity on me."

Javert's automatic response was to snarl at the man, but, before he began to turn in the other direction, he found his eyes drawn back to look at Éponine. Abruptly, he recalled the child who'd reached out to him before, the child he'd ignored, and he recalled how disappointed she had seemed to see him act so callously toward the poor. When their gazes collided, he could see very clearly that her eyes were almost begging him not to turn his old man away like he'd done before. Her lips were tugged down into a tiny frown, and her brown eyes were wide, shiny in the darkness. After a moment, Javert looked away, and, before he could think better of it, he reached into his pocket, withdrew a few franc notes, looked around to ensure none of the other beggars were watching, and then quickly pressed them into the man's shriveled palm. The old man's eyes flooded with happiness, and the corners of his mouth wrinkled up, joy alight in his eyes.

"Oh, you are a saint, monsieur. Thank you, thank you!" he croaked, handling the money as though it was not just a few francs but a handful of diamonds. Once more, unaccustomed to having kind words spoken to him as he was, the Inspector found himself capable only of nodding politely before he continued on his way. As he started onto the other street, he discovered that he did not hear the pitter patters of Éponine's footsteps behind him, and so he turned to determine just what, exactly, she was doing if she wasn't following him. When he turned around again to look at her, he found that she appeared to have advanced a few steps, but was still stood quite a few feet away from him and hadn't moved much.

When he brought his eyes up to look at her, however, the Inspector found she was smiling at him – no, not only smiling. She was practically beaming, ecstatic, for some reason he couldn't fathom, to see him give alms. He did not smile in return, of course, and instead only gestured for Éponine to stop her foolishness and follow him. She complied, but once they'd turned the corner and were back en route to the station, she looked to Javert without saying a word and smiled at him once more.


	8. VIII

**VIII**

* * *

After nearly two weeks of doing nothing and remaining painfully idle once more, the Inspector called Éponine to his office to speak with her about a case that she could assist with. As soon as she was informed of the summons, she went to him eagerly, willing to do almost anything to escape the wretched tedium of day to day life with nothing to do but sit around. She all but ran out of her small room and down to his office, but once she was stood in front of his closed door, she hesitated. She'd not seen him even in passing since the night on the bridge, and when she recalled what it'd felt like to be so close him, with their bodies so near and his hand intertwined with hers, she felt a shudder creep up her back, forcing goosebumps to pimple her skin. However, she blinked several times and willed the thoughts away, then finally knocked on his door and stepped inside when he called for her to enter, her footfalls light and inaudible even on the creaky wooden floor.

"You wanted to see me, Inspector?" she piped up, drawing his focus away from his work.

He nodded and folded his hands on his desk, "Yes. Take a seat, mademoiselle." Éponine obeyed and sank into one of the chairs, sitting up perfectly straight and raising her chin when he began to speak, "There is a man who calls himself Campion that me and my men have been watching for the past few weeks. We suspect him to be behind a number of recent murders and assaults, but every time we get close to catching him, he manages to slip through our fingers. Either my men and I are incompetent or he is exceptionally intelligent for a criminal; I suspect it is the latter."

"So…what do you need me for?" she asked quietly.

"It is said that Campion frequents a small brothel on rue du Val-de-Grace under the ownership of one Madame Beaumont. Since we are well aware that the Madame does not obey the laws that require her prostitutes to be examined biweekly for venereal disease, she has agreed to let us use her brothel to help catch this man, in return for us letting those minor offences go for the time being. Now," he leaned forward slightly and looked at her intensely as he spoke, "as I'm certain you have noticed, none of my officers are women, nor could any of them pose convincingly as women. That is why I have need of you. If you would, mademoiselle, allow me to persuade you to go undercover as a lady of the night. You would not have to engage in any improper relations with the man; simply lure Campion away from the brothel so that we may arrest him, and I will see to it that you are paid for your assistance."

"Why can't you just arrest him there?" she frowned.

"Prostitutes tend to panic and scatter at the first sign of the law," he told her, "If the man is alerted of my presence before the perimeter is secured, it is possible that he may find some way to make an escape once more, and that I will not allow."

Éponine tilted her head slightly to one side, "Why not just use one of the women in the brothel to lure him away?"

"I cannot trust a common whore to do this," he growled, his gaze dark, serious, "You, however, have given me reason to trust you."

At that, she nearly smiled a little to herself, but fear remained deep within her, and her stomach felt slightly ill at the thought of posing as a whore and possibly being forced into sexual acts against her will. Biting her lip and struggling to appear unafraid, she lowered her eyes, "A-and…You would be sure to get there, before he could…have his way with me?"

"Yes," he reassured her, his steady tone telling her that she ought not doubt him, "I will make sure what happened with the man Valade before does not happen again." He saw that she still looked uncertain and frowned, "I give you my word. But if you do not want to go undercover, I will not force you to do so."

Entirely unwilling to let him think she was nothing more than a frightened little girl, she swallowed her terror and put on a mask of false courage, "No. I'll do it. But…" she paused, "How am I to lure him away?"

Javert stood to face his bookshelves, rummaging through them for a minute before he turned to her again, "I trust you will find some way. You seem quite adept at getting what you want. If something should go wrong," he took a seat once more and began rifling through papers, clearly not much invested in the conversation anymore, "I will be nearby. Before then, I shall see to it you are given the address of the location you will take him, and in two days' time, we will put our plan into action. God willing, we will see this dangerous man placed behind bars." He saw that she was uncertain whether or not he was finished, and so he told her, "You are dismissed, mademoiselle."

She nodded and vacated his office without saying another word, afraid that her composure would waver if she did so. Éponine could not deny that she was frightened; she was petrified, really, for she knew she would be taking perhaps an unwise risk in going undercover as a prostitute. She was certain the man Campion would try to make advances on her – as would any man left alone with a whore – and, though Javert had attempted to assure her otherwise, she was still very afraid that he would succeed in getting what he wanted from her, that the Inspector would be too late to stop it. Though it'd nearly happened several times, Éponine had never had a man succeed in forcing himself on her, and the idea of it made even the marrow in her bones tremble. It was surely one of the most disgusting things a woman could experience, she thought, and although she was no longer a virgin – having made the mistake of giving herself to 'Parnasse back when she was barely fourteen – she had no real desire for the touch of a man.

Letting out a shuddering breath, she returned to her room, grabbed her cloak, draped it around her, and then ventured out into the streets, hoping that a long stroll would clear her mind. However, as it was becoming bitterly cold outside, it did no such thing, but Éponine continued to wander around nonetheless, for she knew there was little else to do and she didn't fancy returning to her stuffy room at the present. Without speaking to a soul, she roamed around for ten minutes or so, clutching her cloak tightly in her hands and feeling her nose begin to become red and runny from the cold. She wasn't sure just where she was going, but even so, she continued on aimlessly, without a destination, down one road and up another, all without a specific direction. After a while, when she'd reached the area near Saint-Michel, she heard footsteps hurrying quickly after her, and then, moments later, heard a familiar voice call out her name.

"Could it be? Is that 'Ponine I see?" the voice, belonging to none other than her brother Gavroche, called out, forcing Éponine's lips upwards into a grin. She let out a chuckle when the boy hurried up so that he was walking beside her.

"Hey, Gavroche," she greeted with another, unavoidable smile blossoming onto her lips. Though she didn't miss much about life on the streets, she'd missed seeing Gavroche – and Azelma, for she'd only been able to speak with her younger sister once or twice since her mother had thrown her out.

"'Ey sis. I haven't seen you much around these days. Where've you been?" After she said nothing, instead only reaching down to ruffle his hair, he looked to her dress and poked the nice – at least by his standards – material curiously, "Where'd you get a dress like this?"

Knowing well she couldn't tell him the truth lest she render herself useless to the Inspector, a lie slid easily off her tongue, "A rich old lady saw me begging one day. I think her eyesight must've been rather bad; she gave me twenty francs instead of ten."

"And the cloak?" her brother poked at that as well, fingering the soft, woolen fabric rather suspiciously. Though he was young, Éponine knew he certainly wasn't stupid and wouldn't be ready to believe she'd bought it with the same money, "Where'd you get that?"

"I stole it right off the shoulders of an old bourgeois woman. The old bat didn't even get the chance to see me before I was gone," she lied once more, though this time not nearly as convincingly. She cursed herself, thinking, for a moment, that the Inspector had been right, that she wasn't an exceptionally good liar and that perhaps Gavroche would not be fooled by her.

"Damn, you've had better luck in a month than I've had in a year!" he exclaimed, then sobered up and narrowed his eyes, "You sure you haven't been sleeping with some rich boy and getting him to buy you these things?"

She nudged his shoulder playfully, "There're other ways for girls to get what they want without sleeping with someone, you know."

"You should tell that to some of the prostitutes around here. Maybe it'd get 'em to clean up their act," he told her, as though he thought doing so was genuinely a good idea.

She rolled her eyes and steered their conversation away from such things. Feigning curiosity, she asked, "Have you heard anything about Pa and the boys?"

"Oh, you didn't hear? Got themselves locked up, the lot of 'em!" he chirped, "Doesn't bother me none though. With them out of the way there's more pockets for me to pick." His eyes swept her over once more. "Where've you been staying? It's getting cold. Wouldn't want my sis freezing to death."

"I'll be fine. Don't worry about me," she told him with a smile, "Alleys keep out the wind sometimes, if it's blowing in the right direction."

"Well, if you ever need help, you know where to find me!" Gavroche declared, and Éponine patted his head of light hair fondly. He seemed to ponder something for a moment, and then he eyed her slyly, as if formulating some kind of plan. Finally, he asked, "Say, 'Ponine, got any money left over from that ole' blind woman? I could sure use a cloak like that too!"

Unable to deny Gavroche anything and feeling quite guilty for lying to him, she reached into her pocket, making sure not to let him see that she had more than just a few francs on her, and then withdrew a couple coins. When Éponine handed them to Gavroche, his bright eyes lit up like a little flame, almost warming the area around the two of them with their joy, "Thanks! You never know," he smirked, dimples becoming visible on his small cheeks, "Maybe I'll find me an old woman who doesn't know how to count money too!"

Éponine placed a hand on his shoulder and stopping walking, bending down slightly to tell him, "I hope you do, Gavroche."

"Looks like I better be on my way! See you, 'Ponine!" the boy proclaimed, and then began to skip away merrily. In that moment, Éponine envied him, for he seemed to have no cares, no worries. For a boy who'd spent his entire life on the street, he acted almost as though he was a prince who had nothing to fear, who ruled the land and was loved by his people. Instead of worrying about when his next meal would come, Gavroche seemed more concerned with running around, playing jokes on people, and amusing himself. As she watched him saunter away, each of his footsteps light and making him appear almost as though his feet were not touching the ground, she gnawed on her lower lip in contemplation. Surely, Éponine thought, if he came to find out that she was working for the law, he wouldn't think twice about shunning her, pretending she was never his blood relation at all. Éponine was happier in her new life, of course, but the idea of being resented by Saint-Michel and the rest of the slums never failed to unsettle her greatly.

Letting a sigh slip past her lips, Éponine pulled her cloak around her tighter and began to make her way back to the station, to warmth and safety instead of the frigid hell that was the streets of Paris in mid-December. She almost couldn't stand being there another moment, knowing that the whole of the place would turn on her if she was found out, and so she began to run as though danger was hot on her heels, casting its shadow behind her wherever she went, plaguing her as though it was some kind of demonic entity. The slums were never safe, of course, but now, living in such close proximity to the law, she felt as if she were in even more peril. On and on she ran, and Éponine only stopped when she'd reached the station and slipped into the back door. With haste, she made her way back to her room, took off her cloak, lit her fire, and curled up into a ball next to it. Yes, she thought, she was in danger everywhere she went, it seemed, and thoughts of her mission in a few days swarmed her mind loudly and relentlessly, like buzzards around a corpse. A voice inside her head was urging her to go to Javert, to tell him she didn't want to do it, but another told her that doing so would be akin to admitting that she was too afraid to be his informant, too much of a scared little girl to work with the law. Slowly, her legs feeling as if they were heavier than lead, she plodded over to her bed and laid her body down, thoughts clashing in her mind, urging her one way and then another until she was too overwhelmed and confused to think clearly.

Above all else, however, Éponine realized that she hadn't had even the faintest notion of what she'd been agreeing to when she'd decided to help the Inspector.

* * *

Two days passed with Éponine waiting anxiously for Javert to call for her and take her to the brothel.

Finally, a few hours before sundown on that second day, he did.

Having been given the address the previous day, and having located it shortly thereafter, Éponine knew the plan very well, but that was not what she was afraid of. The Inspector had gone over it with her several times to guarantee she knew it by heart: all she needed to do was wait in one of the brothel's rooms for the man to come to her, lure him away from the place and into an old abandoned building a few streets over, then get out of harm's way and let Javert and his officers do the rest. The Inspector was far from ignorant to the fact that she was frightened, and so, as he met with her in his office a few hours before they were to set out for the brothel, he removed a pistol from a case on his desk and held it out to her like he had before, when she'd gone off to find Valade. Javert approached her slowly, and then pressed the gun into her hands.

"If Campion tries to force you into anything before you are able to lure him away, use this. Do not shoot; simply brandish it at him," he told her. Éponine, clad in her rags in order to go undercover, only looked at him for a moment, and he frowned, "What is it?"

"I…I don't really know how to shoot a gun," she admitted softly.

He looked almost incredulous, "Your dog of a father never taught you?" Biting her lip, she shook her head, and he flattened his lips into a severe line, "I've given you a gun before – why on earth did you not tell me then?"

"I thought just threatening people with it would be enough, before," she swallowed, trying to steady her voice, "But…I might need to use it this time… and I want to know how."

The Inspector had to keep himself from rolling his eyes at her foolishness, and told her roughly, "Follow me. You need to be able to protect yourself, and pointing a gun you cannot shoot at someone is not going to be of much help to you."

Éponine walked behind Javert in silence as he led her out the back of the station and into a little yard outside. It had a high metal fence all around it and was not very well kempt, with weeds growing high in the grass and vines climbing the fence in almost all directions. She'd walked past it once or twice and wondered what on earth it could possibly be used for, and when Javert pushed the old, rusted gate open and let her inside, she finally got her answer. In the middle of the small area, there appeared to be some kind of crudely constructed target made out of old pillows, cloth, and a few pieces of wood bound together with a rope. The thing had numerous bullet holes piercing it – many of which appeared to be very poorly aimed – and she furrowed her brow.

"What is this?" she looked to Javert.

"Most of my officers are deplorable marksmen," he growled, quite irritated by the fact, "If they end up missing their target one too many times or hitting one of their colleagues, they are sent here to practice." He moved forward to examine the target and scowled even more deeply, "Though it doesn't appear practice has improved those fools' aims at all." Javert shook his head and walked back over to her, pulling out the pistol he'd previously offered her and ordering gruffly, "Watch me."

With remarkable speed and precision, Javert took the gun in hand, cocked it, took aim for a brief moment, and then, without hesitating even a little, pulled the trigger. He did not even seem to blink when the gun fired, while Éponine, on the other hand, jumped nearly a foot in the air at the piercing sound. When the Inspector lowered the pistol, both he and Éponine could see plain as day that he'd hit his intended mark. Had the target been a person, she realized, the bullet likely would've gone right through their brain and killed them in seconds. At first, Javert's deadly accuracy left her speechless, but after thinking for a moment, she realized that it only made sense that, with his amount of experience in law enforcement, he would be quite a remarkable shot. She only stared at the bullet hole mutely for a while, and was only stirred from her thoughts when Javert turned to look at her and held the pistol out to her, having taken the bullets out without her knowledge so that, on the off chance that anything went wrong as she learned, she would not be able to injure either of them. Rather hesitantly, she took it and tried to place her fingers on the gun in the same way he'd done. However, it quickly became apparent to her that she was doing it incorrectly when the Inspector harrumphed and moved in closer to her.

"That is wrong. Like this," he rasped, placing his hand on the gun as well and moving her fingers into the proper locations. Éponine stiffened almost immediately, for his large arms were, essentially, encircling her, and it disconcerted her for reasons she could not understand. She swallowed as the cold leather of his gloves brushed against her skin as he eased her finger onto the trigger. After a moment, he told her, "You are too tense." Though it was a struggle to do so, Éponine took his advice and let her muscles go slack, and she let out a breath slowly. She closed her eyes for a long moment and made herself focus only on the feeling of the gun in her hands, and the feeling of Javert all around her, his hands guiding her fingers, his body pressed up against her body. Finally, the Inspector commanded lowly, "Fire."

Preparing herself for the recoil, she squeezed her eyes closed as she applied pressure to the trigger and waited for it to discharge. However, it did no such thing – instead making only a faint clicking noise – and, baffled, she turned her head to look at him, "Why didn't it work? Did I do something wrong?"

"No," he withdrew his arms from around her, and she suddenly became aware of how well he'd been keeping the winter chill away from her. He pulled the bullets out of his pocket, took the gun from her, reloaded it, and then gave it back to Éponine all in one swift motion, "Do it again."

Still somewhat confused, she took it and beheld the weapon before her, her distant gaze making her appear almost as though she was in some sort of dazed state. She snapped out of it quickly, however, and made to place her hands on the pistol in the places Javert had shown her. The Inspector made no move to correct her, and so, with a gulp, she readied herself to fire, though she was not at all certain she was doing it properly. Slowly, after closing one eye and taking aim as best she could, she pushed down lightly on the trigger, and could not help it when her body stiffened once more, anticipating the noise the gun would make when it fired. Éponine took a deep breath, and then finally dared to pull the trigger all the way. The piercing sound it made prompted her to flinch and inhale sharply, but she calmed herself after a moment and lowered the gun to see just how well she'd managed to aim. She had to squint to see it, but she found that her bullet appeared to have hit only five or six inches from where Javert's had struck; perhaps not a deadly wound, but likely still a painful, crippling one. After a minute, she looked to the Inspector and found he was looking at the spot the bullet had hit as well. Though he did not show it, Éponine imagined that he was, at least to some degree, pleased with her.

"Did I do well, Inspector?" she couldn't help but grin a little, for she knew well he would never dare to pay her a compliment or acknowledge her marksmanship in any way.

"It was luck, perhaps. If you can repeat it, then you will have done well," he grunted, "Now, you know how to shoot a gun. We must be on our way. The Madame Beaumont is expecting us within the hour, and my men intend to meet us there."

She almost snickered at the thought of the owner of a brothel eagerly awaiting the arrival of the police, "We mustn't keep her waiting." The Inspector nodded curtly and then began to make his way out into the streets once more, Éponine following close behind as she always did. Before they'd walked even a few blocks, however, she stopped suddenly, her eyes flooded with fear, her knees beginning to tremble, as if she'd only just realized the great danger she was walking into. When she breathed out all at once, a puff of cold air escaped her lips, floating up into the air like smoke. Upon discovering she'd stopped, Javert halted in his tracks as well and glared at her.

She cast her eyes downward, "You're certain you'll be nearby… if that man tries anything."

The Inspector thought, then, that perhaps when he'd failed to protect her from Valade and his band of thieves all those weeks ago, she'd lost quite a bit of her trust in him; that perhaps she was no longer sure she was safe as his informant. The thought caused him to clench his jaw, but he lowered his voice somewhat and told her, "I assure you, mademoiselle, that I will be close by if the situation gets out of hand." He saw that she did not look very reassured, and so, before he turned to continue walking down the street, he swore firmly, "I will ensure that no further harm comes to you."

Meekly, Éponine nodded and said no more, instead only taking off after the Inspector as he turned and walked away.


	9. IX

**IX**

* * *

They arrived at their destination after a short while, and when they did, they found Javert's officers waiting for them there, in the process of surrounding the place and securing the perimeter. Suddenly, it became apparent to Éponine that this was actually going to happen, that this was not a far-off notion in the past like it'd been before, and a shudder crept up her spine. She trembled and hugged her arms to her chest as the Inspector led her around the back and knocked thrice on the door, then waited for a moment for it to open. It didn't, however, and a little peephole in the door slid open instead, a pair of dark eyes eyeing them suspiciously from the other side.

"What do you want?" a voice that sounded like it belonged to a woman demanded hoarsely, her gaze meeting Javert's without even a trace of fear.

"Tell Madame Beaumont that the wolf has arrived," he commanded. The woman narrowed her eyes at that. "She will know what it means."

The slit in the door that she'd been looking through slammed shut, and the woman went off to seek out the Madame. She returned after a minute or two, and this time, opened the door all the way to allow the two of them inside.

"I am to take the girl to the red room," the middle-aged woman – one of the prostitutes, presumably – told Javert as she led them down the hallway of the filthy place, her tone making it very clear that she was not at all happy to see the law infiltrate the brothel, "You're going to wait in the next room over, monsieur. We will tell Campion we've got a new girl – a virgin. That'll make him choose her over the rest of us. Still, it's a shame you've come to arrest him." She glared pointedly at Javert and rested her hands on her wide hips, "He's one of our best customers."

The Inspector did not bat an eye, "He is a thief and a murderer. If he has not already beaten one of the women here it is almost inevitable that he will."

The woman rolled her eyes but said nothing in return, for she'd thought such a thing likely as well and did not see the sense in contradicting him. Éponine gulped upon hearing his words, and closed her eyes for a moment. Eventually, the woman stopped and motioned to a small room on her left, "This is where she'll meet him."

Éponine cast a panicked look Javert's way, but after it became clear to her that he did not intend to say anything, she bit her lip and stepped into the room as though she was approaching the guillotine. She could smell what appeared to be a blend of several different kinds of cheap perfume in the air, and the thick, pungent odor made her wrinkle her nose. True to its name, the room was exactly that: red, in all places, in every nook and cranny. All the furniture in it – which only amounted to a small sofa and a bed – was red, and the ratty old blanket draped over the bed was the same color as well. The wallpaper, though faded and peeling, had clearly been a vibrant red long ago when the brothel was first built, but was now faded to a dark pink. The woman followed her as she stepped into the area, while Javert stayed outside, his feet planted steadily on the ground. Once Éponine realized that he did not plan to come inside, she walked back over to him, unmistakable fear in her wide, brown eyes.

"I wish you luck, mademoiselle," he said. She took a shaky breath, stepped forward all at once, and took hold of his forearm urgently.

"You promise you will not be too late?" she breathed, "You will be there if something goes wrong, won't you?"

The Inspector did not pause for even a second to think, for he'd already vowed both to Éponine and himself that he would not permit harm to come to her once more, "I will."

Slowly, though she did not want to let him go, she released the Inspector and watched in silent terror as the old prostitute led him away and into another room. She returned promptly, however, and made her way toward Éponine with a frown on her ugly, wrinkled face.

"Can't believe you're the best spy the cops could get," she snarled as she took in the look of fear on Éponine's face, "You can't look so scared, girl. Good Lord, you don't look the part of a prostitute at all!" She reached out and tugged one of the tiny sleeves on Éponine's shoulders down, rendering part of her chest nearly exposed. The woman lowered her eyes to her skirt and chortled, "Too modest." Then, she knelt down, and made short work of tearing at it, ripping off a few inches so that her legs were visible and then casting the thin fabric aside. She stood back and took another long, sweeping look at her body, "Are you really a virgin?" Éponine held her breath, considered lying, but ultimately shook her head. "Then you'd best find a quick way to lure him out of here before he finds out. The men who come here don't like to be lied to about those kinds of things." The woman sauntered over to the door, clearly unconcerned with what became of the girl before her, "Campion will be here in a minute. Try to make yourself look desirable."

With that, the woman quit the room and left Éponine by herself, shivering in the chilly air. Timidly, she made her way over to the bed, only to find the blanket in a rather wretched, disheveled state. There was dried blood and countless other bodily fluids staining it, and the smell of the thing made her want to gag. She did not even being to consider lying down on the soiled mattress and prayed to God that she would not be made to, either. Instead, she took a seat on the sofa, which seemed substantially less tainted by sex but still had a number of questionable discolorations on it. She closed her eyes and tried to remember that, if she wanted to stay conscious, breathing was a necessity, but she found herself often forgetting to do so and becoming lightheaded every other few seconds. She bunched her skirt up in her hands when she heard heavy footsteps approach from down the hall, then stop right in front of her room. She knew without a doubt who it was, and so, just as the door began to open, she sent a quick prayer to God once more. Then, endeavoring to appear as though she felt no fear, she got to her feet to receive the man.

Campion was not a man of impressive height or physique, but that was not to say he was short, either. He was simply average: an average height, weight, build, and nothing more. Still, to Éponine, he was horribly intimidating simply because of the fact that he was here to have his way with her, and would doubtlessly force her if she tried to resist. His hair was a light shade of brown, and his face looked quite like someone had taken a blunt object and smashed it in. His nose was oddly shaped, his eyes too far apart, his chin dented and positioned a bit higher than was normal. She very quickly came to the conclusion that he was a rather revolting man to look at, yet still, she did not take a step back or show any hint of disgust on her face. She feigned indifference, but did not, however, attempt to be seductive. According to the story that the Madame had been told to give Campion, she was a young girl of sixteen who'd never known the touch of a man before and was a blank page, impressionable, innocent. Such a girl would likely not try to flirt with him, she thought, and that came as a great relief to her. Still, when he approached her, she instinctively tensed and struggled not to cringe when he reached out and placed a hand on her chin.

"Ah, you're a pretty one," he remarked with a lecherous grin as his eyes drank in her body, lingering for a while on the part of her chest that was nearly exposed, "And you've never been with a man either, have you?" Slowly, she shook her head, and his grin became even wider, "Never fear. I'll teach you all that I know, sweetheart."

He moved his lips to her neck and began placing long, sloppy kisses on the skin there, moaning when he tasted her soft flesh on his tongue. Éponine squeezed her eyes closed and stomached it as best she could, but the urge to push him away from her was becoming nigh on overwhelming and hard to stifle. She fought it with all her might, though, and forced her arms to hang limply at her sides, allowing his arousal to climb to such great heights that he might be willing to do what she wanted. A few minutes passed in this unbearable manner, and finally, she decided to speak up, before he became so intent on having her that he would not listen.

"I know a place…better than this, you know," she let desire melt into her eyes, "Where you could have me and two other girls for the price of one."

He considered the idea for a brief second, then shook his head and chuckled, "We'll finish up here, then how about you take me there?"

Her stomach sank when he started to bite her neck, prompting her to gasp, "I-I must insist. Trust me..." she inhaled sharply again when his hands crept down to her breasts, taking hold of them roughly in his calloused hands. Her voice trembled, "You'd like it better than this place."

"Here's the thing," he whispered into her ear, "I don't think I would."

Éponine could not hold in the cry of fear that escaped her throat when she felt him hike her skirt up and begin to move his hand between her thighs. She realized, with horror, that she'd let this go too far, and she simply refused to let it go further.

"Wait a moment, monsieur," she tried to urge him gently at first, but he did not respond and instead continued, undaunted, to snake his hand up to the area where her legs met. When she felt him brush the inside of her thigh, she screeched in horror, "_Stop it_!"

"Shut up," he growled, and then pressed her up against the wall with more force, squeezing almost all of the air out of her lungs and rendering her breathless. His tongue worked faster at her neck, his fingers so close to her opening that she felt sick inside. At last, she summoned all the strength in her body and, even though she was quite small in comparison to Campion, managed to shove him off of her. Shocked, he made no attempt to steady himself – for he had not honestly thought her capable of such a thing – and was sent stumbling backward into the wall. However, he recovered with haste and stormed back over to her. Campion took hold of her wrists and spat in her face, "You don't get a say in the matter, girl."

He raised his hand to hit her, and she closed her eyes, turning away and shielding her face with her hands. Silently, as if Javert could hear her thoughts, she begged him to come, to save her from this man before her like he'd said he would. Just as he made to hit her, she somehow wrestled herself out of his grasp and dodged the punch that he threw at her. Doing so, however, caused her to lose her balance and fall onto the floor, the back of her head hitting the sharp edge of a nearby windowsill. Pain shot through her head like a bullet, and her world began to spin – and she realized, at that moment, that she could no longer fend for herself with such an injury. She felt blood begin to dampen the hair around the back of her head, and, through her blurred vision, she could see Campion walking toward her, towering over her and laughing with a crazed glint in his eyes.

"Can't fight, can you now?" he rasped as he took hold of her once more and pulled her upward, her arms and legs limp, useless. Desperate to get away, she tried to struggle against him, and he cackled again at her utter defenselessness.

"Let go of the girl now or I'll shoot."

The smug smile fell from his lips, suddenly.

When a voice as loud as thunder boomed out from behind Campion, Éponine felt herself being dropped back onto the ground. She nearly wept with relief when her foggy mind registered the Inspector's voice, and then, managed to decipher the sound of a gun cocking – his gun. Though she couldn't make out the sight perfectly, she was almost certain that Javert was holding his pistol to the back of the other man's head, ready and willing to blow his brains out in a moment's notice should he make one wrong move. She blinked a few times, but still couldn't force the scene before her to come into proper focus.

Then, without warning, the room erupted into chaos. With a surprising amount of stealth and speed, Campion lunged toward Javert and, though it was not an easy feat to accomplish, managed to disarm him, knocking his pistol to the floor. Knowing that Javert would have no trouble taking him down if he did, Campion made no move to pick it up, and when the Inspector drew his saber and brandished it at him, the other man was forced to improvise. He managed to grab the broken leg off of a chair in the corner, and held it up to Javert's saber in an attempt to defend himself.

The two then engaged in a duel; every time Javert would swing at him, Campion would dodge or block the blow with an expert's grace, and it became clear to both of them very quickly that they were locked in a stalemate. Both were equally proficient at fighting, and both steadfastly refused to back down. Still, their fight continued until both men were breathing heavily, waiting to see who would be first to succumb to his exhaustion and surrender. When the Inspector's eyes drifted over to Éponine in the midst of the brawl, he froze for a moment and felt rage course through him upon seeing that the girl was barely conscious, her eyes opening and closing as she rocked her head from side to side, wincing as she did so. Campion, noting his temporary state of distractedness, took advantage of it, charged at Javert, and managed to pin him to the ground, holding Javert's saber at his neck, mere inches away from his skin. The Inspector used every ounce of his remaining strength to keep the blade away from him, and he cursed himself when he realized that he'd put himself in a terrible position.

Upon hearing the Inspector crash to the ground, Éponine blinked several times and, though her mind was still fuzzy, crawled quietly toward the spot where Javert's pistol had fallen. She reached for it, and for a fleeting second, the moment became utterly clear, her mind snapping into total cognizance. To Éponine, the world seemed as though it was moving very slowly as she picked up the gun and stared at it dumbly for a moment. However, when she glanced over at Javert, she found that Campion was lowering the saber closer to his neck, mere inches away from slitting his throat. She swallowed, knowing that she had to act with all haste, and then closed her eyes, bringing her thoughts back to only a few hours ago, when the Inspector had taught her the proper way to shoot a gun. She imagined his sturdy arms around her, his hand guiding each finger into the right location, his voice in her ear instructing her to fire the gun. By some miracle of fate, though her vision was still quite distorted, she managed to get to her knees and aim the weapon directly at Campion's head.

Without even really being aware of what was going on, Éponine swallowed, steadied her hands as best she could, and fired.

When the Inspector first heard the gunshot, he hadn't the slightest idea where it could've come from, but the instant it sounded out, the man holding the blade to Javert's neck fell to the ground, the weapon tumbling from his hand.

The same moment he fell down, dead, Javert looked up, only to find Éponine holding his pistol with both hands, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly agape as she stared at Campion. For a long moment, that was all either of them did: they stared at one another, without a sound. As he propped himself up on the floor, the Inspector looked at Éponine with shock plain to see on his face, and likewise, Éponine looked at the fallen man with a mixture of astonishment and horror. Her aching head could barely process what she'd just done, but through all the confusion, she was able to think one thing and one thing only.

She'd killed a man.

She'd never killed a man before.

Her voice was hardly anything more than a squeak when she finally remembered she could talk, "I-is…is he dead?"

Javert rolled the man over, but did not need to look long at the gunshot wound on the back of his head to know the answer. He cleared his throat, unsure how she might react to the news, but nodded nonetheless, still breathing hard from the fight only minutes ago, "Yes."

As soon as his words came to her ears, her fingers grew numb, and she dropped the pistol onto the floor, gazing upon it with horror, as though she was sickened by its ability to kill. She was quick to realize, however, that she was far more sickened by herself than she was by anything else. She'd taken a man's life. She'd always promised herself that she'd never do it, would never commit murder. She knew Montparnasse and her father had killed countless people over the years, and she had absolutely resented the idea of becoming anything like them. But a fat lot of good that'd done, she thought. She was just like them now, a killer with a man's blood on her hands. All of the breath left her body at that moment through a sharp, trembling exhalation, but she made no move to get to her feet, instead only remaining there, looking to the gun, then the body, and then back again. Oh God, what'd she done? The pounding in her head was making it difficult for her to comprehend anything going on around her. Her thoughts were scrambled, the only clear thought being: I have killed someone. I have killed a man.

Javert rose to stand and approached her as though she was on the brink of an emotional meltdown. He wasn't certain what he thought she would do, but he was anticipating tears, for it was obvious to him that this was the first person she'd ever killed. Much to his surprise, no tears spilt forth from her eyes, and Éponine only stopped staring at Campion's body when Javert extended to his hand to help her up. Every one of her fingers shaking, she took it and somehow managed to stand, though her knees and the rest of her body were shaking violently as well.

She looked to the Inspector, her mouth slightly agape, her gaze so stunned that she appeared almost as if she didn't believe what had just happened had been real. For a moment he thought she intended to say something, and when she did not, he spoke instead, "You have been hurt."

Mutely, she brought a hand to the area on back of her head that was wet with blood, and realized when she moved her hand back in front of her eyes just how profusely she was bleeding at that moment. Though she felt woozy at the sight, she did not faint; no, she was far too stunned to faint, far too stunned to do anything other than stare at the man's motionless body. Even when Javert's officers rushed in, alerted by the sound of the gunshot, her eyes stayed locked on the spot for so long that she became certain she'd simply forgotten how to move them. There was quite a large pool of blood under the man's head that only seemed to be growing, seeping into the floorboards and dying the floor of the red room red as well. His face was turned to one side, and his eyes were still wide open, staring blankly at the wall. No matter how nauseated she felt, though, her gaze did not deviate from the spot, from the blood, from his lifeless, glazed eyes.

When she finally did look away, it was not by choice but because of the fact that Javert's men were leading her away, out of the room and the brothel so they could deal with the chaos that'd ensued as a result of the killing. Éponine had no choice but to follow, seeing as she was weak, injured, and unable to fight them off. So, too overcome to do anything, she allowed the men to take her from the place, leaning on a few officers heavily for support. She could only walk for a short while, however, and then her body began to feel heavy, cold. Eventually, the stress of the killing and the pain in her head became too much for her to bear, and all at once, without warning, she slipped from consciousness.

* * *

Éponine spent the next three days drifting in and out of consciousness in a hospital, unable to stay in either state for long. She could hear somebody saying that she would, without a doubt, make it, that she'd sustained a moderate concussion but should be perfectly all right. She heard that – that she would be all right, just fine – and had she been lucid enough to, she would've laughed. She was not all right. She was a killer. She'd taken another person's life. How could she ever be all right again? How could anyone who'd killed ever be all right? Thoughts of Campion ran through her mind whenever she was even barely awake, and when she was not, he invaded her dreams, turning them into ghastly, gory nightmares that she was unable to ward off. At times she would try to speak, to call for some kind of help – some kind of reprieve from the chaos her mind was engulfed by – but she was almost positive that her words came out garbled, nonsensical. At least once a day for an hour or so, she knew someone came to visit her, though she could never be absolutely sure who that someone was and why they came to her. After three days had passed in this manner, she finally awoke a few hours after dawn on the fourth day, and for the first time, could see and think with a great deal of clarity. Her head did not hurt nearly as much, and the nurses who'd been taking care of her had wrapped a large white bandage around the top of her head. Another day or so was spent in the hospital, and eventually, she was deemed fit to return to the station. The Inspector came to retrieve her and take her back, and she discovered, in time, that he'd been her mysterious visitor.

She wondered why he'd done it, but, weak as she still was, she did not really care to ask him.

Éponine returned to the station, but did not speak a word to anybody and instead only retreated into her room, staying there and not making any effort to leave or busy herself. Though he could see that she had been left scarred by the whole ordeal with Campion, Javert was uncertain what, exactly, to do. He knew he would not be able to give her the consolation she needed, and so he did what he did best: he avoided her, because he hadn't the slightest idea how to deal with her. The lack of her pestering from day to day was both soothing and yet somehow greatly troubling to Javert. He'd become quite used to her presence, and something felt off in the world when she did not come around to ask if he had anything for her to do, or try to engage him in some idle chatter. Though it bothered him, Javert brushed any such thoughts aside and immersed himself in his work. He would wait for her to snap out of it, he decided. Surely it wouldn't last forever.

One evening a week or so later, as he was leaving the station to patrol the streets, he came upon Éponine sitting on the front steps, her arms curled around her knees and her stare distant, as though her mind was not present in this moment but in another entirely. He breathed in slowly, thought over his options for a minute, but finally chose to take a seat beside her and find out what on earth was going on inside that mind of hers. Upon seeing him sit beside her, she flinched slightly, then relaxed after a moment and let out a breath. The Inspector felt rather odd doing what he was doing and it showed in his posture, which was even more rigid and upright than it usually was.

"It is cold. You should not be outside in this weather," he finally remarked.

Since she was not wearing her cloak, she shivered, but asserted, "It's not that cold." She swallowed, gathered all her courage, and then finally voiced a question she'd been wondering about ever since the day she'd shot Campion, "How many people have you… killed, Inspector?"

"I do not know," he told her as he looked straight ahead, for he truly had no idea.

"But… it's been a lot, hasn't it?" Reluctantly, as he was not fond of thinking about the people he'd had to kill, he nodded in reply, and she gnawed on her bottom lip, "More than ten?" Again, he nodded, "More than…twenty?"

She looked quite terrified of him, and so he told her firmly, "I have never killed someone without just cause."

"I-I killed that man. That Campion," she choked out. She could feel tears begin to moisten her eyes, and she hated herself for appearing so weak, "I _killed_ him." She lowered her voice so that it was hardly more than a croaky whisper, "I'm a…murderer."

The Inspector found he was unable to listen to her accuse herself of such horrid things any longer. When he spoke up, his voice was loud, powerful, "You are not a murderer. Had you not killed him, he may very well have killed me. A murderer is someone who kills with malicious intent." Éponine turned her head and listened to Javert intently as he spoke, "And you did not kill with malicious intent."

"That doesn't make me feel any better," she muttered softly and got to her feet, turning so she was facing away from him and looking out upon the empty street.

Frustrated that she seemed intent on blaming herself for the man's death, he could not keep himself from sneering after he'd stood as well, "If anything, you've done the world a favor by ridding it of that man."

"But h-he was still a person, wasn't he? Maybe…maybe he deserved to go to jail, but-"

"He deserved exactly what he received: death," Javert growled, his every word spoken with the utmost confidence – so much so that she was nearly forced by the power of his voice to turn and look him in the eyes, "We suspect that he may have taken the lives of as many as five other people in street brawls and other minor disagreements. If Campion had been an innocent man it would be a different story. But he – _he_ and not _you_, mademoiselle – was a murderer."

That time, his words, spoken honestly and emphatically, succeeded in solacing her. Wiping a tear from her eye, she folded her arms and let her lips perk upward slightly, "I suppose you're right." She paused, then admitted in a small voice, "I-I always swore that…that I'd never be like my father and his friends. They've killed a lot of people, I'm sure. And I don't want to be like that. Like… them."

"You are not like them. You have taken a life for justice – not out of anger, or greed." At that, he saw her perk up even more, and she no longer looked so completely despondent. When the cold permeated his coat and send a shiver clattering through his body, the Inspector raised his chin, then grumbled, "Now come inside, unless you fancy freezing to death out here."

Javert started toward the door from whence he'd came only minutes ago, and, consoled immensely by his words, Éponine followed him with a smile.


	10. X

**X**

* * *

Éponine had always loved Christmas.

Despite the bitter cold, she looked forward to it every year, eager to see the holly and wreaths everywhere and hear the carolers' voices floating sweetly into the air. Even though she'd not been given a proper Christmas present in years – not since she and her family had lived in Montfermeil – she still enjoyed the happiness that seemed to encompass most everyone during this time of the year, when families gathered together and all was well. There was a kind of tranquility in the air, a feeling that put Éponine at ease, and almost every person she encountered seemed merry. Everyone smiled more often, said more kind words, give more alms to the poor. Every officer at the station, too, awaited the day and was anxious for it to come as fast as it could, so that they might go home and spend the holidays with their family.

Everyone Éponine came across seemed to love the holidays – except for Javert.

He was even grumpier than usual, and, though he was normally a man of few words, spoke even less as December prepared to draw to a close and the whole of Paris prepared for Christmas. He looked perpetually furious with everyone around him regardless of who they were, including Éponine herself, and spent more time in his office alone, shutting himself off from the world and throwing himself into paperwork. The few times she'd tried to speak to him, Javert had simply made some kind of growling noise under his breath and ignored her altogether, disappearing into his office and slamming the door behind him. Éponine noticed that all his officers seemed to tread with the utmost caution around him, as though he was a fuse only inches away from igniting a bomb, yet for some reason no one questioned his behavior. It seemed to her that his men must be used to it, that this must happen every year, and so she resolved to find out what was bothering him so much.

One day, as Éponine was sitting and talking with Pierre – one of the oldest officers at the station and quite a friendly aged fellow indeed – the Inspector stormed past them angrily, his stride long and purposeful and his eyes as piercing as a pair of daggers. His sour mood was written all over his face, and as he walked by, his subordinates cleared the way for him in the same way they would clear the way for royalty. Just as he passed Éponine and Pierre, who were relaxing in two chairs and having a discussion about the upcoming holiday, he stopped in front of them and clasped his hands behind his back.

Pierre, at first, did not notice his presence and instead continued talking to Éponine, "And let me tell you, mademoiselle; the food my wife makes for Christmas is just about heaven on earth. Why, I could-"

"Do you not have something productive you could be doing, officer?" the Inspector demanded, grinding his teeth together. Pierre's head snapped his way, but, seeing as Javert appeared to be more than a decade his junior, he did not seem much affected by the man's patronizing tone.

"I think speaking with Mademoiselle Éponine is quite productive," he told Javert calmly, not at all intimidated by him as most of the younger officers were, "Besides, my shift doesn't start for another few minutes-"

Furious and unwilling to back down, the Inspector snarled, "Then perhaps you could be using those few minutes to prepare for your patrol so that you may be able to begin at precisely six o' clock – and not a minute later." He took one brief look at Éponine, frowned, growled once more under his breath, and then stalked away, pushing past a poor young officer who'd been unfortunate enough to be in his way and then disappearing off down the hallway.

Pierre noted that she looked slightly concerned by the reprimand, and so he leaned forward and patted her knee to reassure her, his large girth somewhat hindering his movements, "Don't fret, mademoiselle. Javert's like this every year around Christmas. He's quite a grouch, if you ask me. Sometimes I think he's trying to ruin the holidays for the rest of us."

"Why is he so unhappy?" she tilted her head slightly to one side. Pierre shrugged.

"It's anybody's guess. Nobody knows, and nobody wants to ask him. Why, a few years back, a couple of young officers were speculating about the reason, and Javert overheard. Nearly wrung those boys' necks!" he chuckled and leaned back in his chair, sobering up, "It is a shame, though. We're all sure he's got no family, and it must be rather sad to spend the holidays alone."

Suddenly, she realized that that was exactly what she would be doing this year: spending Christmas by herself. Every year, she'd celebrated Christmas with Azelma – and Gavroche, if she could find him. She realized that she'd never been alone during the holidays; no, she'd always had one of her siblings to keep her company, to make her laugh and entertain her. She didn't have presents or anything of the sort, but she had them, and that had always seemed to be enough for her. She supposed she could try to find Azelma this year, but she knew it was more than likely that her mother wouldn't allow her to see her younger sister after she'd gone and gotten her father sent to prison. Gavroche would almost certainly be off with some of his friends making mischief, and Éponine figured she would be here at the station, sitting by her little fire and reading a book, pining for the days of old when she had someone to spend Christmas with. But, as her mind processed this new information – that Javert would be spending the holidays by himself as well – an idea came to her.

There was no reason to him to be so lonely, and there was no reason for her to be lonely, either. Loneliness was something she was loathe to tolerate, and if she could avoid it – and, in doing so, simultaneously relieve him of his as well – then surely, it would only be for the better.

She got to her feet, excused herself, and then made her way slowly to Javert's office. When she tapped on his door, however, the only response she got was a gruff order, "I am not to be disturbed. Leave."

Predictably, Éponine did not obey, "It's Éponine, monsieur."

The revelation of her identity did nothing to sway him, "Leave." Once more, she refused to comply and, with great hesitance, she turned the door knob, opened it, and stepped inside. Javert felt a powerful surge of anger at her insolence, but attempted to contain his fury and bit out with a sneer, "What part of leave was unclear to you, mademoiselle?"

She ignored that question and stepped further inside, "What do you plan to do on Christmas Eve, Inspector?"

Unsure why she would be asking such a thing, he narrowed his eyes, "That is of no matter to you." She said nothing, still waiting for a proper response, and, as though he could read her thoughts and knew she did not intend to leave, the Inspector finally relented and spat, "Working. I will be working."

"On Christmas Eve? But…you can't work on Christmas-"

"Someone must do it, and that someone is me," he replied brusquely.

In somewhat of a state of disbelief, she ventured even closer to his desk, "Do you work every year on Christmas Eve?"

He did not even look up at her when he responded, "Yes."

"Y…you don't have any family?" she swallowed, afraid he would lash out at her or command her to leave again.

He glared at her, but said simply, "No."

She took a deep breath, moving closer still to where Javert sat, "I'll be alone on Christmas Eve, too. We could…spend it together, you know." Shocked and quite unsure of what to say to that, he looked up at her, and she gave him a timid smile, "No one should be by themselves during the holidays."

"I will not be doing anything interesting," he informed her sharply, though his tone was no longer so caustic and biting. Instead of appearing livid as he'd so often been in recent days, he seemed almost sad, his eyes mournful and downcast, "I will simply be patrolling, going to Mass, and returning here to eat dinner."

"That's all right," she grinned, her eyes sparkling, "I'll go to Mass with you, and sup with you too." She thought for a moment, then asked, "Shall I get you a present, Inspector?"

He nearly rolled his eyes at such an absurd notion, "Do not spend your money on me, mademoiselle."

Éponine, however, had stopped listening to him, and by the time his words drifted to her ears, she'd already danced out of his office and into the hallway, leaving Javert to his work.

* * *

The twenty-second and twenty-third of December passed rather quickly, and before Éponine and Javert knew it, Christmas Eve had come. While the Inspector was out patrolling for most of the day, Éponine took pleasure in walking about the streets of Paris near the bourgeois neighborhoods to see the Christmas decorations – the red ribbons and holly hung outside and inside the houses – and to hear the sounds of laughter coming from each home. As morning became afternoon, a light snow began to fall, and eventually, when the sun started to set and evening arrived, the snow became heavier. It was the perfect amount of snow, Éponine thought to herself as she strolled along the empty streets. It wasn't as much as a blizzard might've brought, but it was enough to cover the streets and the buildings, sprinkling everything with white and making the city look rather picturesque. Icicles formed on awnings and doorways, and Éponine thought that everything looked absolutely perfect for Christmas: white and sparkling. Just as night began to fall, Éponine made her way back to the station, and then waited for Javert to return as well so she could accompany him to Mass.

After half an hour had passed, he did, and she put on her cloak and newly bought pair of mittens, following him out the door and back into the cold winter air. They walked along the snow covered streets in silence for a while, and, as she usually was, Éponine was the one to bring the hush between them to an end, "Do you go to church often?"

"No," he answered, his voice low and possessing a strange quality to it. At first, she couldn't pinpoint what it was, but after a moment, she realized that it was weariness, "I attend Mass once a year, on this day."

"Why?"

Clenching his jaw, he said nothing, and somehow, she understood that she should not inquire about it any further – at least not at this particular moment. The sky began to sprinkle snow down upon them once more, and Éponine smiled as a few flakes landed on her nose and melted away, leaving nothing but a faint wetness in their wake. Suddenly overwhelmed by joy, Éponine stopped walking for a moment, and, upon seeing she'd stopped, Javert halted in his tracks as well. He turned around to see what on earth she could be doing, and when he did, found that she was spinning around slowly with her eyes locked on the sky, snowflakes landing gently in her hair and clinging to her cloak. As though appreciating something holy, she extended one of her gloved hands out and watched, almost in awe, as tiny pieces of snow tumbled silently down from the heavens and into the palm of her hand. In that moment, Javert did something he'd never done before: he watched her. He'd watched her before, of course, but this time, it was not to size her up, to see if she was lying to him, to deduce her motives for something. Now, he was simply watching, taking in every little thing she did: the way her nose wrinkled up and grew red from the cold; the way her feet turned around in the snow, leaving little trails behind; the way her hair grew damp from the snowfall and clung to her cheeks; and the way she seemed to treasure every piece of snow as though it was more valuable than gold.

He continued to watch her, and he found himself staring very intently at the girl before him. The hope he'd seen in her eyes before was still there, still shining brightly, and in that instant, he thought that, had he been more prone to feel emotion, he might've envied her. He might've envied her for her youth, for her hope, for her ability to admire even the tiniest, most meaningless things in nature. He also thought, then, that she looked to be almost lovely dancing about, her cheeks flushed and her mouth curled into a smile. Javert had not bothered to appreciate any woman's beauty in a long time, and to do so unsettled him slightly, yet, as he observed her mutely, he thought that it almost could not be helped when she was so happy, so free. His fascination with her did not stem only from her physical beauty – though she was not entirely displeasing to the eyes – but instead from her sheer, unadulterated happiness. This only served to confuse him further, and after a moment, Javert found that he'd somehow managed to baffle himself with his own thoughts.

Éponine put an end to his reverie, however, when she laughed aloud and asked, "Isn't it lovely? And look." She raised her hand up to the stars, searched them for a second, and then looked to Javert, "I can see Orion."

Forcing himself not to dwell on the perplexing thoughts of her any longer, Javert only muttered lowly, "Come. We will be late."

Though she seemed reluctant to stop watching the snow fall, she complied, and after another few minutes, they reached the church, Saint-Sulpice, and stepped inside. After they entered, Éponine discovered she could not tear her eyes from the high ceilings, from the beautiful statues and paintings that adorned the place. There were candles nearly everywhere she looked, and the splendor of the church amazed her. She'd walked past the place many times, of course, but had never had the courage to go inside, for she'd always thought herself unworthy to enter one of the grand houses of the Lord, and though she did pray at times, she hadn't set foot in a church this magnificent since childhood. Such beauty was simply not for her, she'd told herself time and time again. Church was surely a place for her betters; not for a girl like her. Yet as she entered, she could not help but feel a distinct sense of peace, of purpose, as though she did, indeed, belong here. Yes, she thought, she had as much right to be here as anyone else, and the ecstasy that washed over her as those thoughts entered her mind brought another grin to her face.

The Mass seemed to go by rather quickly to Éponine. At times, she would look over at Javert as if trying to discern what, exactly, he was thinking about, but she found that, despite her best efforts, she failed every time. She eventually tried to listen to the priest's words; however, she had little luck with this too, for his voice was a deep monotone that sounded almost like a lullaby to her, coaxing her closer and closer to sleep. She didn't understand most of what he was talking about anyway, and so she finally stopped trying to and leaned back in the pew. Eventually, before she realized it, the service had ended, and she and Javert left the place.

Once they returned to the station, the Inspector found himself realizing something he'd not considered before. If they were to sup together, he would have to invite her up to his room, and that was something he certainly did not want to do, as he hadn't had another person in the place for years, and doing so could create an affinity that Javert did not desire. At the same time, however, the idea of eating dinner with her in his office seemed entirely unsuitable, and so, after thinking for a moment, he concluded somewhat unwillingly that having dinner with her in his room, with a proper table and chairs, was the better – albeit more uncomfortable – of the two choices.

He told Éponine of this, and all she did was nod, but secretly, she was eager to see his living quarters, the place where he slept and ate and was, perhaps, a different man than the rest of the world saw. After he led her up a flight of stairs, then down a short hallway, and finally pushed the door to his room open, she discovered that she wasn't at all surprised by what she found. His room was decorated – or _wasn't_ decorated – in the same way his office was: there were no trinkets, nothing hanging on the walls, no rugs on the dusty wooden floor. There were no personal effects to be seen lying about anywhere, and the only furniture in the room was a large bed, a table, two chairs, a fireplace, and a forest green armchair near the fireplace. There were no desk or bookshelves, but she figured that was because he lived just above his office and had no need for those things here. Most of the room was dark, with only moonlight from the window to illuminate it, but the Inspector remedied this by lighting a small oil lamp on the table.

Though Javert was slightly disconcerted by having her here, he did not show it in any way. As Éponine removed her cloak and hung it on his coatrack, he made to set out dinner – which, she thought, was not grand or fit for the holidays at all. It was simply a loaf of bread and a bit of cheese, and she wondered for a moment if all his meals were as plain and simple as this one. She hung back near the door, unsure of what to do, until Javert finished pouring them two glasses of wine and motioned for her to sit. She did so and began to eat without a word, and he did the same.

A minute or two passed in this manner, until she observed his slight discomfort with her presence, "If you do not want me here, I will go, monsieur."

Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, Javert thought, for an ever-fleeting second, that having Éponine for company was not proving to be annoying – at least not overly so. He did not mind being alone, for he had long ago become used to it, but it was not as though he was completely able to ignore the fact when the holidays came, when all his officers went home to their families and he stayed at the station by himself. He realized, then, that he was not at all annoyed by her presence, nor did he particularly want her to leave. As such, he looked her directly in her eyes and told her with a straight face, "There is no need for you to leave until you have finished your meal."

Taking that as confirmation he did not wish her gone, she grinned and continued to eat without saying another word, for she did not know what to say to him and was quite hungry. His foul mood did not seem to have returned just yet, but she worried that it would and that she would be on the receiving end of Javert's temper. Still, she was obliged to stay, if only to figure out why he seemed to constantly be at war with himself during the most joyous time of the year. They finished the food promptly, and then Javert proceeded to clear the table and set a fire to heat up the frigid room. As he did, Éponine finally seemed to remember how cold she was, and so, as soon as the fire was roaring healthy and strong, she crept over to it and curled up into a little ball.

Eventually, he walked over to the fire as well, looked at the empty chair beside it, and said, "You may have the chair if you wish."

She shook her head, staring into the flames and relishing the warmth they gave off, "No. I'm all right here." When they lapsed into silence once more, Éponine found that she could no longer stand it, when silence was the exact opposite of what she wanted. She wanted to speak with him, understand him, and she could not achieve that if this quiet persisted. She glanced over at Javert curiously and found he'd poured himself a glass of something that looked like brandy – an indulgence she hadn't thought him apt to take part in – and taken a seat in the chair beside her. Biting her lip, she asked, "Why do you live here?"

He frowned, "What do you mean?"

"Here, at the station…You could afford to live somewhere else, couldn't you? Somewhere nicer?"

"I live here out of convenience," he informed her, though it was only a half-truth. But the way she was looking at him, with her wide, intelligent brown eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly, made Javert fear that she understood he was not being completely honest, that she understood that he lived here because he hadn't a thing in the world for him besides his work.

"I didn't know you drank."

He frowned even deeper and took another gulp of the alcohol, staying silent until the burning in his throat had subsided, "I do not."

"Why are you so unhappy, Inspector?" she blurted out before she could tame her curiosity. This only prompted Javert to glare at her again and remain silent, so she continued, "I-I know you're not usually happy. But…it's not just that." She thought for a moment, looking him over with an analytical eye, then finally declared softly, "You look… sad."

"If you think I will bare my soul to you, mademoiselle, then you are sorely mistaken," he spat, and she flinched slightly.

However, she ventured onward, largely unfazed, "You don't need to do that. I just want to know why."

"It is not your concern," he shot back, though his voice seemed to lose a bit of its power. He avoided her eyes at all costs, instead staring intently on the fire as though he'd never seen one before.

"What if I want it to be my concern?"

"It is not," he hissed. The calm yet menacing manner in which he spoke alarmed Éponine so much that her mouth snapped shut, and she looked away, deciding that she likely wouldn't get him to tell her the cause of his melancholy. Her cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment, and she curled up further into a ball, clutching her knees to her chest and thinking that she was quite a fool for coming here at all.

The reason Javert conceded and spoke was unknown to him. Perhaps, he thought, it was because the alcohol had loosened his tongue and dulled his sense of reason, but when he looked at his glass, he realized he'd only had a few sips of the brandy – not enough to intoxicate him. Or perhaps it was because he had never known someone who cared enough to inquire so fervently about what was bothering him; when most saw he was in a bad mood, they avoided him at all costs. He realized, with slight discomfort, that no one but Éponine had been able to see that his rage around Christmastide was not pure anger, but was instead rooted in deep, unshakable sorrow. No one had ever observed him so closely in the way she seemed to, and though it bothered him a little – the idea of being watched, analyzed by this girl – he did not, at that moment, feel as though he wanted to keep the reason for his wrath from her when she desired to know so badly. All of a sudden, exhaustion washed through him. His head felt heavy, his tongue felt swollen, his eyelids yearning to close. He was more tired than he'd been in years, and he hadn't the foggiest notion why.

Finally, he permitted himself to speak. His voice was steady, but his sentences were clipped, pithy, "I do not remember much. I was a child. But Christmas Eve…" he trailed off, grasping the glass in his hand so hard that he was certain it would shatter at any moment, "was the night that my mother chose to take me to an orphanage and leave me there."

She nearly gaped at him, and had to remind herself not to. Éponine almost could not believe that he'd been willing to tell her, and somehow, she knew that she was perhaps the only person he'd ever told of this. Swallowing, she gazed up at him and asked, "H-how old were you?"

"I cannot recall," he shook his head, and she knew he was not lying just so he could avoid the subject; he seemed as though he really did not know.

Then, she did something Javert would not have expected: she smiled at him, "Thank you." When he eyed her strangely, she added quickly, "For telling me, I mean. You didn't have to." He flattened his lips into a line and said nothing, placing his eyes on the fire once more. She did not encourage him to speak any more, for she'd already learned all she needed to know. What he'd told her was more than she could've ever hoped for from him, and her thirst for knowledge was thoroughly satiated, for the time being. Since he'd offered something of his past to her, she decided to do the same, "I have quite a cruel mother as well. I don't see her now, since I'm here, and I certainly don't miss her. But… she was kind to me, once." She allowed a little grin onto her face as she reminisced about the past, the years she'd lived in Montfermeil, but it quickly evaporated when she realized that the Inspector had never known a mother's kindness at all.

She forbade herself to think of that any longer, and then asked him suddenly, "Am I your friend, Inspector?"

Javert thought for a moment and responded before he could realize how pathetic his answer was, "I do not have any friends."

"Why not?"

"I have no need of them."

She said nothing for a while, but eventually uncurled herself and turned to look at him, murmuring quietly, "You've got a friend in me… if you ever do want one." Before Javert could reply or even think over her words, she got to her feet, scurried over to where she'd hung her cloak, and withdrew a tiny package from one of the pockets. She then made her way back over to Javert and held it out to him, slightly unsure of how he would react, "Here. I got you something."

With a great amount of apprehension, he stood, reached out his hand slowly, and took hold of the thing, which was wrapped in brown paper and tied with a red bow. He looked up at her with something she thought appeared to be faint disbelief, "It was not necessary for you to do this, mademoiselle."

"I know," she smiled gently, "But I wanted to."

Before he began to open it, he clenched his jaw, "I do not have a gift for you."

"That's all right," she reassured him cheerfully, "You've given me a place to stay; that's the best gift I've gotten in a long time."

Methodically, Javert untied the bow and peeled back the paper, then stopped for a moment before removing the wrapping entirely. He'd not been given a gift in so long that he could scarcely remember what it felt like to open one, and the paper felt alien beneath his fingers, as though he was opening something that belonged to someone else. He ripped the paper off before he could think any further, and once it was gone, a small book bound in leather that was the size of the notepad he often used to take notes came into view. The cover was textured with what appeared to be flowers or something of the sort, and the pages inside looked sturdy, well-made. The design of the thing was a bit more feminine than he would've bought, but he did not mention it, for he truly could not recall the last time he'd been given a present for no reason other than kindness. His subordinates had, of course, sometimes tried to buy his favor with alcohol or cigars or some other kind of nonsense, but Javert knew that Éponine was not trying to buy his favor; she had no real reason to give him this gift, no ulterior motive. She had given it to him solely for the sake of giving, and the fact left him unable to speak for a minute.

"I didn't really know what to get you. You don't do much besides work," she told him with a little shrug, "But I saw you were running out of pages in that book you always write in." She noticed that he still seemed unsure of what to make of it, and Éponine furrowed her brow, "You don't like it?"

"I do like it," he said after he'd straightened his back and cleared his throat, "Thank you, mademoiselle."

A smile bloomed on her face again, "Look inside the cover."

He did so, and found there was writing on it. He squinted in the darkness to read it, and determined after a moment that it said, _From your friend, Éponine._ Her handwriting was neater than he might've thought it would be, and it looked as though she'd taken a great deal of time to ensure each letter was formed perfectly, with immaculate lines and loops. He could not explain what he felt as he looked upon the words, but deep within his chest, he thought he felt a tiny hint of something akin to contentment. Though he would never admit it, her presence had made this usually hellish night a bit more tolerable, and he found that, in the end, he was not displeased that she'd come.

He felt almost as though he should smile at her and so he attempted to, but it ended up looking like more of a grimace than anything else, "It was kind of you to go to the trouble."

Before she could say anything in reply, a yawn forced itself out of her mouth, and she suddenly realized just how tired she was, "I ought to be off to bed, monsieur. Thank you for the dinner." Satisfied that he liked the gift, she walked over to take her cloak from the coatrack, and then turned around to look at Javert, her eyes twinkling through the thickness of the night, "_Joyeux Noël_, Inspector."

Instead of trying to force another smile at her, Javert kept his face blank, but softened his voice quite significantly and nodded at her, "_Joyeux Noël_, mademoiselle."

Listening to the sound of her light footsteps creep down the hallway in the night as he was, Javert did not move for a minute or so, and he only turned toward his bed once they were no longer audible, and she was gone.


	11. XI

**XI**

* * *

The New Year came, but even so, crime did not cease, and criminals still ran rampant all throughout Paris, crawling through the streets as though they were a persistent infestation of insects that could never be exterminated. On the tenth of January, Javert called Éponine to his office to speak with her about what appeared to be some kind of rivalry between gangs in Saint-Michel that was fast becoming deadly. So far, more than a dozen bodies had amassed as a result of the conflict, and the Inspector intended to put an end to the feud before it could escalate further and endanger innocents as well. Javert was not entirely certain just how much use Éponine would be to the case, but since Saint-Michel was her home and those who lived there her people, he knew she must at least know some miniscule detail that could assist him. As long as she'd been working for him, she hadn't failed him yet, and it was almost relief for Javert to have somewhat of a constant in situations where there were few he could rely on. He trusted his officers, of course – or at least the majority of them – but there was something about Éponine that inclined him to trust her slightly more.

One of the men from the opposing gangs, a young fool going by the name of Prideaux,had been brought in for questioning after failing to escape when the police had arrived after one of the brawls. Éponine heard his name and recalled, suddenly, that he and her father had gotten into quite a disagreement shortly before her father had been taken in. She wasn't certain exactly what it was about, but Prideaux owed her father something – money, perhaps – and had been terrified of him coming to get it. She told Javert this, and, though it was reluctantly given, obtained permission from him to be present as the man was questioned.

"I want to be able to speak this time," Éponine told Javert as they walked down the halls of the police station, toward the room in which Prideaux was being held.

He frowned, "Speak only if you have something important to say."

Just as they reached the door, the Inspector removed the little book Éponine had given to him to take notes, and withdrew a pencil from his pocket as well. She grinned, "You're using it. My gift."

"Yes. It has been useful," he remarked only seconds before he pushed open the door to the interrogation room – which, Éponine thought, appeared to have alarmed Prideaux because of its utter simplicity. It looked rather like a solitary cell would in a prison, with no furniture or anything of the sort besides a table and chairs, and she could only assume that was what he was afraid of: going to jail, having his freedom taken from him.

"I-I've done nothing wrong," the man asserted almost as soon as Javert and Éponine had taken their seats. Then, Prideaux looked to Éponine and scowled, "What're you doing here? You're Jondrette's brat; what-"

"Be quiet," Javert cut him off roughly, and the gruffness in his voice made Éponine flinch slightly, as she'd almost forgotten how little he endeavored to be polite to criminals. The Inspector folded his hands on the table and assumed the most menacing stance he could manage whilst sitting. When he spoke, his voice was monotonous, droning, "We are aware of your involvement in a recent rivalry between gangs in Saint-Michel. You may either tell us what you know, and we will see what we can do for you. Or, you may tell us nothing, and spend the rest of your days in a jail cell. Which would you prefer, monsieur?"

Prideaux looked somewhat concerned, but shook his head, "I'm not telling you anything. You can lock me up but I won't rat out my brothers."

"As I recall," Javert raised his voice slightly, "your _brothers_ decided to abandon you after a fight to be found by us." Though he tried not to show it, the man looked saddened by that, and so Javert attempted to persuade him further by demonizing his companions, "They are not as loyal to you as you think they are, monsieur."

"No, that's not true-"

"It is indeed true. You are only a burden to them that they threw from their shoulders as soon as it became possible."

"You think I'm stupid enough to fall for that, you son of a bitch?" Prideaux spat with a sardonic chuckle, leaning in dangerously close to Javert's face, "I'm not gonna tell you _anything_."

Before Éponine could even blink, the Inspector had risen to his feet, growled, and seized the man's neck in his hands, holding it tightly but not tightly enough to choke him to death. Prideaux's eyes grew wide, and terror sprung into his eyes when Javert uttered calmly, "I would strongly recommend you reconsider, monsieur."

"Please…" he croaked, "Can't…can't breathe-"

"If you would prefer to persist in your silence, of course, I can see to it that you are sent to a place where you will never be permitted to see the light of day again."

Frightened that the man would asphyxiate before he could speak and Javert would kill him, Éponine shot to her feet as well and demanded, "What're you doing? H-he can't breathe; you'll-"

He looked to her, and the air of serenity about him while he was throttling a man alarmed her, "Do not interfere, mademoiselle."

"No! _Stop_ it!" she shrieked, throwing her hands on his shoulders and trying to tear him off the other man. Since Javert was significantly larger than she was, Éponine had no luck, but upon realizing that she did not intend to stop bothering him until he let go, he released the other man, snarled at her, and then tugged Éponine roughly outside the door. As he watched them disappear, Prideaux tumbled onto the floor, panting and struggling to catch his breath as his head spun.

"You are not to get in the way," Javert hissed, his eyes blazing with fury.

She frowned and folded her arms, unafraid, "You can't strangle someone to get information out of them! You could've… killed him!"

"It would not have gone that far," he grunted, and she ground her teeth together, but said no more. She calmed down somewhat, and realized that he was right, that he would've stopped if the man had passed out or something of the like.

She thought for a moment, and then told him softly, "I have an idea. Can I speak with him for a minute?"

"I cannot imagine anything you might say that could sway him. He seems quite intent on maintaining his silence." Éponine only looked at him for a moment, her eyes beckoning him to humor her, and Javert exhaled slowly, "Very well. You have one minute – no more."

Éponine's face lit up, and she smiled brightly at him before reentering the room with Javert following close behind her. Once more, they took their seats, and Prideaux shrank away from the pair slightly as he clutched his aching neck. She thought that he looked quite like a little boy, not the hardened criminal he'd pretended to be a few moments ago. He appeared only to be a few years older than Éponine herself – about the age of Montparnasse – and even though she knew it was likely that he'd grown up on the streets as well, he somehow had maintained the tiniest bit of innocence about him, which had been made obvious in the face of fear. Éponine couldn't say she felt sorry for him, but when she spoke, she made her voice gentle, much quieter than Javert's had been.

"I believe you owe my father something, monsieur," she told him, and he lowered his hands, placing them on the table, for he was clearly not as threatened by her. Still, he eyed Javert cautiously, as though the man was poised to attack again.

"I do. A gambling debt," he replied, his voice trembling a little. He cleared his throat to steady it, "But the bastard's locked up now, and I won't have to pay it."

"Have you not heard?" she feigned surprise. Intrigued, as her lies seemed much more convincing than they'd been in the past, the Inspector watched her as she stood and leaned in toward Prideaux, setting both hands on the table, "He's going to be released in a few days, and I know for a fact he'll be coming to collect."

Panic shot across his face, "But I haven't got the money to pay him, and-"

"Now, don't worry, monsieur," she sat back down and spoke with false sweetness in her voice, "If you tell me what you know about this feud I'll make sure he forgives your debt."

Prideaux narrowed his eyes into slits, suspicion plain to see on his face, "You got him taken in. Why would he-"

Thinking quickly, she cut him off, "I believe you've heard wrong. That was my sister Azelma, not me."

He still did not seem entirely reassured, "Why are you working with the cops?"

She said nothing for a moment, caught off guard and uncertain how to answer, and the Inspector sensed that she was at a loss for what to say. He jumped in swiftly, "The mademoiselle was arrested for theft, and she is assisting me for the time being to earn her freedom."

Éponine lowered her voice, but kept it loud enough so that her words were not inaudible to Javert, "You see? It's not like I_ want_ to be helping the law. I've got no choice, monsieur. But…if you help the Inspector, he'll help you."

The utter calmness about her surprised Javert, but it seemed to adequately convince Prideaux to confess. Heaving a sigh, he began, his voice low and throaty, "The whole thing is a misunderstanding – and it's not between gangs either. I guess you could call them that, but all it is, is a rivalry between two men – Couvreur and Lecocq. Couvreur's gone a bit mad since he hit his head in a fall a while back when he was drunk, and now he thinks that Lecocq's been having his way with his girl. Lecocq isn't, though, and I know it for a fact!" He took a breath and then continued. The Inspector jotted down a quick note that Prideaux seemed to have sided with Lecocq, "Couvreur got his pals together and so did Lecocq, and now they fight whenever they cross paths. It's gotten out of hand. I didn't really want to get involved; you have to believe me, Inspector-"

"Where can I find these men, Couvreur and Lecocq?" Javert interrupted him sharply. Prideaux swallowed and seemed to hesitate.

"I don't know about Couvreur, but you'll find Lecocq at 23, rue Sainte-Avoye." He stopped once more, licked his lips, and leaned forward a tad. Éponine thought she could see sweat beading on his brow, "But you can't tell him I told you all this. He'll kill me. I-I'm sure of it."

Javert closed his little book and tucked it and the pencil away, getting to his feet. Éponine did the same, and she watched in stunned silence as the Inspector walked over to Prideaux and handcuffed him roughly, "Do not be afraid. Where you're going, monsieur, he will not be able to harm you."

Prideaux's face showed confusion, then panic, and eventually, anger, "What? Hey, you said you'd let me go if I told you what I know!"

"I said no such thing," Javert retorted as he pushed Prideaux forward and forcefully guided him out of the room. Silently, unsure why he'd done what he had just done, Éponine followed him and watched as he handed Prideaux off to one of his officers. Prideaux did not stop struggling and protesting, but no one paid any heed to him, and as he was led away to the station's holding cells, his shouts echoed down the hallways. Once he was gone, Éponine approached Javert with a frown.

"I thought you said you'd see what you could do for him if he helped you," she shook her head, bewildered and entirely unable to comprehend just why, exactly, he had disregarded the fact. At first he did not answer and instead only began to walk toward his office, but she managed to get in front of him and stand in his way, "Why did you do that?"

"Because he knew who you were," Javert finally said, irritated by her persistent pestering, "He knew who you were and that you were working for me. If I'd released him he would doubtlessly have gone and told others about it, and you will be of no use to me as an informant if you are found out."

Éponine was nearly rendered speechless by his words. He'd not thrown Prideaux in jail because he'd deserved it; he'd thrown him in jail to keep her safe, to stop those in Saint-Michel and the surrounding areas from finding out about her. Dumbfounded, she blinked a few times and eventually managed to say, "You…were protecting me?"

"Of course," he snapped, "I am not going to let you be thrown to the dogs. Now, I will be going to find this Lecocq." He took a long look at her, and it seemed to Éponine that he was considering something. Finally, he let out a breath and said, "I assume you want to accompany me." With a tiny grin playing on her lips, Éponine nodded eagerly, glad that he appeared much less burdened and frustrated by her presence. Upon seeing her nod, Javert started toward the door, "Then let us be off."

* * *

With two of Javert's officers in tow, the Inspector and Éponine left the station and headed in the direction of the address they had been given.

All the while, as they walked along the streets in silence, Javert was immersed in a state of deep contemplation. He'd been thinking a great deal lately – even more than he usually did – and he found that he was rather confused about a number of recent developments in his life. Most of the developments he was confused about, however, involved the same person: the girl Éponine, his informant. His thoughts were everywhere and yet, like many separate paths that led to the same destination, Éponine always seemed to encroach upon the workings of his mind, even when he was thinking of something that had nothing to do with her. The idea of having a friend at all was disquieting for Javert, but having her as a friend was especially so. Why? He feared he could not say, for however confusing Javert was to Éponine, Éponine was equally as confusing to Javert. She was the daughter of mean, hardened criminals and yet she'd somehow managed to maintain her integrity. She had surely seen countless horrors during her time on the streets, yet she was still somehow innocent, still somehow had faith in humanity and humanity's goodness. She was exceptionally intelligent for a girl who'd likely never had the chance to get much of an education. Somehow, the Inspector thought to himself, she had managed to turn out to be a decent human being despite having been thrust into rather unsavory circumstances. She was quite a remarkable specimen: someone who, though forced into extreme poverty, had not given up hope and accepted her fate. Though not as dramatically as he had done, Javert thought that it seemed as if Éponine had overcome the slums simply by refusing to let them dampen her optimism. She was, in truth, one of the most interesting people he'd met in recent years. She was everything he was not: happy, warm, friendly, and he was everything she was not: callous, rigid, unkind.

Yet somehow, in the only two months or so they'd known one another, she had grown to consider him her friend. The Inspector was still wholly uncertain why, but he did not object to it, for, although it was unnerving to have a friend after so many years without one, it was also pleasing, in a way. Many of his officers had tried – and failed – to befriend him over the years, but despite of his distaste for all criminals, he'd allowed this Éponine, who he hadn't known for more than three months, to call him a friend. Once more, he found that he was puzzling himself by trying to make sense of it all, and so he jettisoned those thoughts from his mind in order to regain his focus on the task at hand.

Once they arrived at their destination – an old building that looked as though it had once housed some kind of store – Javert and his officers assessed the situation as best they could. They couldn't see inside, for the windows had been boarded up and the shutters nailed closed. After determining that there was no other way in, the Inspector folded his arms and ordered, "Break down the door."

His officers made to do so, but stopped when Éponine piped up, "Wait! I've got an idea." She looked to Javert and the two other men with them, "Stand back for a moment, if you would, monsieurs."

Unsure if they should obey her, they looked to Javert, who, though grudgingly, nodded and motioned for them to step away. Still, he made sure to watch her closely, lest she do something foolish and put herself in harm's way. His qualms proved unnecessary, however, when Éponine simply walked over to the door and knocked on it, calling out in a syrupy-sweet voice, "Monsieur?"

There was no reply for a moment, but Javert and his men leaned in closer to the door when they heard what sounded like feet scuffling about. Then, a man's voice replied gruffly, "What?"

Éponine took a breath, "I've got a gift for you, and I believe you'll quite like it."

Very slowly, the door creaked open. Javert and his officers pressed themselves against the side of the building so as to not be seen by the person inside. The man took a look at Éponine and narrowed his eyes, "What's the gift?"

"Me," she purred as seductively as she could muster, surprising even herself as she adjusted her thin chemise so more of her chest was visible.

The man raised his eyebrows, and the door opened a little more, "Who sent you?"

"Prideaux. Said he thought you could use a girl to…relieve, some of your recent woes."

At the mention of the man's name, he seemed convinced that she was not lying. At last, the door came upon all the way, casting light on the shadows inside and revealing a thin, ugly man dressed in ratty clothes. When Javert saw him extend a hand and pull Éponine inside, he and his officers sprang into action, brandishing their truncheons and charging into the building without warning. Within moments, the man presumed to be Lecocq had been handcuffed and rendered harmless.

"Hello, monsieur," Javert greeted coldly. The man looked up at him with hatred ablaze in his eyes, "I trust you are the man going by the name of Lecocq?"

"So what if I am? You got no right to arrest me; I haven't done anything-"

"We need to ask you some questions," he answered, "And we are only taking the proper precautions to ensure our safety."

"Yeah?" he snarled, "Well, your safety ain't ensured here, _monsieur_."

At that instant, Javert saw the man's eyes shift to look at something behind him, and then, he became aware of someone approaching him. Only a second passed before Javert spun around and found himself staring down a large, heavy-looking man who'd appeared without a sound behind him. One more man just as filthy and disgusting as Lecocq emerged from the shadows, sliding greasily from the darkness like a snake and holding a small knife at the policemen. Éponine stared in disbelief as the men sized each other up for a moment that seemed to be an hour. The other men were slightly outnumbered – for there were three officers and two of Lecocq's men – but certainly had the advantage when it came to height and weight, she thought regretfully. She was given no more time to assess the situation, however, for in a matter of mere seconds, the room became utter mayhem. Lecocq, who was still in chains and relatively harmless, assisted his men in whatever way he could, which meant he simply stood there yelling encouragements at them, though it quickly became clear that his men were not winning. Éponine did not attempt to join the brawl at all and instead pressed herself into a corner, because, for once, she'd recognized the fact that all she could really do would be to get in the way. The fight continued on like that for a few minutes, but it was halted when one of Lecocq's men drew a gun, having realized that he and his friends had no chance if he didn't.

The next few seconds passed almost in slow motion to Éponine. The man aimed the gun randomly, and she found he'd pointed it at her though he hadn't consciously tried to. Stunned, she felt as though her limbs were grounded to the floor, unable to move. A shot rang out in the air only moments later, and almost the exact moment it did, a body jumped in front of hers to shield her from the bullet, tumbling to the floor and taking her along with it. She heard Javert yell her name, but realized that he sounded too far away to be the one who'd protected her. Everything became deathly silent for a moment, and Éponine only lay there, paralyzed with fear, her lungs being crushed by the heavy weight on top of her. After the moment of terror and disbelief had passed, she managed to slide out from underneath the person, and discovered that he was one of Javert's officers.

She didn't know him well, but she'd seen him around the station a number of times, and he had always made a point to greet her although they'd never held a proper conversation. She knew his surname was Prevot, and that was how she'd always heard his colleagues address him. He was a young man of about twenty-three, she guessed, and he had thick, black hair, dark eyes, a face with gentle edges, and a tanned complexion. She recalled thinking that he was rather handsome every time she'd seen him around, but when his stunned eyes found hers and their gazes intertwined, she discovered she was no longer able to contemplate his handsomeness, his eyes or his hair. Instead, she only gawked at him, confused as to why he'd thrown himself in front of her when they did not even know one another. When his face contorted with pain, however, she snapped out of her trance and propped herself up against a wall.

"Y-you've been shot," she breathed, her eyes becoming wild with panic. She crawled over beside the injured officer and looked to Javert, who, along with the other officer, had managed to subdue the other criminals. She gulped, "H-he's been shot!" Her voice broke, and she felt an inexplicable sense of sorrow, as though he was her friend when they were, in reality, but strangers to one another. Tears clouded her vision slightly, yet she tried as best she could to stay strong. She couldn't tell exactly where he'd been shot, but she knew just being shot alone was life-threatening and certainly not good for one's health. Suddenly, she realized that she could not bear to see this man die on account of her – her, filth from the slums, the daughter of a criminal. She did not want to see a respectable man give his life for her, and so she vowed then that she would make sure he survived. She did not want to see the man who'd saved her life die; she almost certainly could not bear it.

Just how she intended to stop him from doing so, however, she was not certain.

Javert was quick to realize that he could not possibly get Prevot to the hospital and Lecocq and his men to the station with only the help of his other officer and Éponine, who was less than half his size. Before Javert could stop them, Lecocq's two men scurried out the door and into the street, disappearing before they could be chased. Lecocq, who was not nearly as close to the door, was unfortunate enough to be stopped when the Inspector, swearing under his breath after the escaped criminals, stepped in his way. The man shrank away from him, seeming to understand that he would not be getting away any time soon, and let the other officer grab hold of him roughly. Still furious that the other men had gotten away, Javert exhaled angrily and knelt down beside the fallen Prevot, who appeared to be maintaining consciousness rather well.

Javert took one look at him, noticed the dark patch of blood leeching through the fabric of his uniform near his shoulder, and said in a low, gravelly voice, "It is only your shoulder. You will not die, Prevot. But we must get you to a hospital. Can you stand?" Struggling to stay calm, Prevot nodded through the pain. Javert extended a hand to help him up, and, for some reason she couldn't fathom, Éponine did the same.

Slowly, as though uncertain which hand to take, Prevot reached up and took Éponine's head, and by some miracle, managed not to topple her over when he got to his feet. The Inspector raised an eyebrow at her, confused by her actions, but said nothing of it and only nodded toward the door. He returned to the streets, and they followed, with Prevot leaning heavily on Éponine all the while as they stumbled in the direction of the nearest hospital.

* * *

After helping him to the hospital and leaving him there, Éponine did not see Prevot for four days. She'd heard bits and pieces of information from other officers around the station – that they'd done surgery and removed the bullet, and that he would be back to work in a week or so – but she felt a sort of yearning for more, to see the man instead of only hearing about him, for she could not forget his eyes as he'd lain on top of her, the agony on his face as the bullet pierced his skin. Had he not jumped in front of her, the bullet would've hit her in the chest and almost certainly killed her, and Éponine realized as the days went on that she owed him a great deal more than she could ever repay. So, after enduring an almost suffocating desire to see him for four days, Éponine finally approached Javert as he was leaving to patrol in the early afternoon, intent on getting him to accompany her to the hospital so she could see the injured officer again and thank him for what he'd done.

"Do you have a moment, Inspector?" she asked as she caught him only seconds before he could open the door and disappear off into the streets. She noticed that Javert looked quite inclined to say that no, he did not indeed have a moment, but eventually, he relented and turned to face her.

The Inspector looked at her somewhat impatiently, "What is it, mademoiselle?"

She broached the subject carefully, "That man, the one who saved me…what is his name? W-who is he?"

"Prevot," he almost snarled the name, "He began working here four months ago." He paused for a moment, considering whether or not he should say what he wanted to, but eventually decided not to bother sugar-coating the man's story, "The boy is a fool. He graduated the academy at the bottom of his class, and only barely managed to get a job as an officer. He was assigned to me in the hopes that I could whip him into shape, but he is still precisely the same as he was when he first came to Paris."

"How's that?"

"Dimwitted."

She frowned and murmured, "You shouldn't talk about him like that. He saved my life, after all."

"Yes," Javert conceded, but was quick to add, "It is perhaps the most useful he's been to the Prefect so far."

Unwilling to think Prevot any less of a hero because of Javert, she clenched her jaw and balled her hands into loose fists, "I want to see him."

"He is recovering," Javert said as he pulled on his leather gloves, "You shall see him when he returns to work."

"Please, Inspector," she lowered her voice, "I want to thank him for saving me. A-and you know what? You ought to thank him too. Without him, I might be dead."

The notion of her death bothered the Inspector far more than he wanted to admit, and so, reluctantly, he straightened his back and cleared his throat, "Very well. Come. But I must implore you, mademoiselle," his tone was biting, sarcastic, "Do not enlarge his ego any more; he is nigh on intolerable as it is."

Her face lit up with a smile, and then, Javert saw something flicker behind her eyes. It looked almost as though it was a curiosity, a yearning to know the so-called heroic man who'd saved her life, and he nearly rolled his eyes at her. Javert could hardly stand to see someone have such a high opinion of the idiot Prevot, yet at the same time, he did not want to denounce him further, for he knew doing so would hurt how she perceived not Prevot, but he himself. But beyond the curiosity, there was something else: a longing in her eyes as she, perhaps, conjured up romantic notions of Prevot, the man she doubtlessly thought her savior. At that, Javert felt an unfamiliar stirring of possessiveness in his chest and an ill feeling in his gut, for he was well aware Prevot had quite the reputation of being an unabashed womanizer. If Éponine worshipped him in the way Javert suspected she would, he knew Prevot would milk it as long as he could, and the last thing the Inspector wanted to see was her playing the fool for the narcissistic moron and letting him take advantage of her.

Yes, Javert thought, he could see the curiosity in her eyes, and he did not like it.


	12. XII

**XII**

* * *

"You have visitors, monsieur," Javert heard one of the nuns at the hospital announce as he and Éponine followed the elderly woman into the small, sparsely decorated room where Prevot was being kept. Javert stepped inside first, blocking Éponine's view of the inside for a moment, but she was quick to move past him to get a look at the man lying in the bed before them. The Inspector noted her eagerness and scowled.

Once her eyes found Prevot's, she froze, every muscle in her body growing tense, her breath catching in her throat. He didn't look much different than how she remembered him looking on the day he was shot; Prevot seemed a little paler, but otherwise looked all right, healthy enough. There was a large bandage wrapped around his shoulder that looked as though it did not have much blood on it, which she took as a sign that the bullet hadn't caused a crippling injury. As soon as he saw her step inside, Prevot's eyes became locked on Éponine, and he seemed quite unwilling to tear them from her. Almost without her consent, a little smile crept onto her lips, and he returned it, his eyes narrowing in interest slightly as he took in the girl before him. Javert clenched his jaw and glared at Éponine out of the corner of his eye, displeased to seeing her and his subordinate eyeing one another so closely, with such ardent curiosity.

Javert chose to end the silence, and when he spoke, Prevot looked away, breaking the gaze, "I trust you are getting along well, officer."

"Yes," Prevot propped himself up on the pillows and cleared his throat, not entirely comfortable in the presence of Javert, "The nurses tell me I should be back to work in a week or so."

Javert could think of no more to say to put off the inevitable: when Éponine would want to speak to Prevot alone. She expressed her wish to do so only moments later, shifting her weight between her legs and looking to Javert somewhat impatiently, "Could I speak with Monsieur Prevot for a moment alone, please?"

Javert ground his teeth together, sent a look Prevot's way that told him to tread with great caution around Éponine, but ultimately nodded, "Very well. I will wait outside."

Though unwillingly, the Inspector turned and left the room, closing the door behind him and leaving Éponine and Prevot by themselves. All the while, something nagged at Javert, and his stomach twisted slightly, as if, somehow, he knew that something was amiss, that something would go wrong. He barred such thoughts from his mind, however, and did as he said he would: he waited patiently outside the door and convinced himself all the while that listening to their conversation was entirely unnecessary. He almost sneered at the thought; he was being irrational, and he could scarcely stand a lack of rationality in others – let alone in himself. Eventually, he resolved to fold his arms, close his eyes, and bow his head as he waited for them to finish their discussion so he could be on with his day as usual.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the wall, Prevot and Éponine had fallen prey to a silence that seemed utterly deafening to the both of them. Nervous and sweating for some reason she couldn't understand, she fidgeted slightly, and then realized that she'd barely even taken a few steps into the room and had instead hung back near the exit, as if she didn't trust Prevot and intended to escape as soon as she was given the opportunity. She remedied the distance between them by venturing slowly over to his bedside and taking a seat at a small, creaky stool next to him.

"Hello, monsieur," she greeted, her voice small and higher than normal. Prevot looked her over for a moment, up and down, drinking in every part of her, and eventually grinned.

"Hello, mademoiselle," his voice was not nearly as deep as Javert's, but had a pleasing timbre nonetheless, Éponine thought, and she longed to hear him speak more.

She swallowed, "I came here to thank you. You saved my life." Éponine paused and lowered her eyes, "I'm forever in your debt, monsieur. If you hadn't jumped in front of me… I would've been shot."

He shook his head, "You owe me nothing, mademoiselle. I did what any man in his right mind would've done." Prevot seemed to think for a moment, then extended his good arm to her, "Though I've seen you around the station, I do not believe we've ever been properly introduced. I am Antoine Prevot." He smirked, "My colleagues call me Prevot. But should you like, you may call me Antoine."

Éponine grinned and took his hand, wondering to herself how Javert could possibly think this man an imbecile when he seemed the perfect gentleman, "I'm Éponine. If you ask anyone around here, they'll tell you my surname is Jondrette, but really, it's Thénardier." She licked her dry lips, "My friends call me 'Ponine. You could call me that, I suppose."

He chuckled, "We hardly know one another."

"You saved my life. You're a hero," she asserted softly, bringing her eyes up to meet his, "Anyone who saves my life can call me whatever they like." They were quiet for a moment, and then she looked to his injured shoulder, "I'm sorry about your shoulder. Does it hurt?"

Prevot shook his head, "Not much anymore. The nurses tell me it's healing well, and that no permanent damage has been done."

At last, Éponine gave the words she'd been longing to speak leave to pass through her lips. Her brow was furrowed, her lips pulled into a small frown, "You risked your life…for me. And I-I don't understand. You didn't even know me."

"I'd seen you around the station several times."

"I know, but…" she stared at him, baffled, "You barely knew me and you risked your life for me. I don't understand why."

"May I speak honestly with you, Éponine?" he asked, his voice becoming low, raspy, and sending a shiver down Éponine's back. Wordlessly, she nodded. He smirked again at her, and his eyes seemed deeper, darker, with a lustfulness that she, fascinated by him as she was, failed to see, "I did not think I could bear seeing such a pretty girl shot dead before my very eyes and do nothing about it."

Éponine felt a blush creep onto her cheeks, "You flatter me, monsieur."

"I assure you; I do no such thing," Prevot's voice sounded smooth, like silk in her ears, and she found herself even more enraptured by the man before her, her savior. Her breath caught in her throat once more, and she realized, then, that this man, Antoine Prevot, had succeeded in making her feel exactly the way Marius once had. As Marius made his way into her mind, she felt a sudden rush of emotion through her – a sudden longing for days gone by – but she shook it aside with all haste. Marius was part of her old life, her old, miserable life on the streets, and though she knew she would always care for him and perhaps always adore him, she had no desire to return to Saint-Michel and to all that she'd left behind. She longed for him yet at the same time, she did not long for the life in which she'd known him, nor did she desire to return to the circumstances that had brought them together. Éponine smiled, thinking to herself that this Prevot, the man who saved her life, could perhaps play a part in her future, and perhaps all Marius could ever do was play a part in her past. She couldn't be certain what was to come, but she felt a sort of hope when she looked at Prevot and found him looking back with kind, sweet eyes that spoke of great affection. Hope that she could finally know what it was like to care and be cared about, instead of suffering another love unrequited.

At last, Éponine remembered her voice, "I'm glad you're doing well. If you'd died on account of me, I…"

"If I'd died on account of you, then I would have died so that you might live," he grinned at her again, his dark eyes sparkling and enchanting Éponine even more. Once again, she did not notice that Prevot was perfectly aware of the effect his flattery had on her, "I would have gone to my grave a happy man."

Éponine could barely remember how to breathe, so kind and gentle were his words to her. She'd been flirted with before, of course, but almost always it'd been Montparnasse doing the flirting and his advances had hardly ever borne any semblance of decency. No one except for Marius – and Javert, she supposed – had ever treated her like a proper lady, and no one had ever displayed such great kindness and respect toward her. It was a welcome change, and an unfamiliar feeling of joy swelled within her. They sat for a few more minutes in contented, calm silence that neither felt obligated to fill with words or thanks. Simply being in his presence was enough for now, she mused, and she had little need for anything else.

After a while, Éponine finally seemed to recall the existence of the outside world and the fact that Javert was still waiting for her, his patience likely wearing thin with every passing moment. Slowly, as if afraid he would shrink away from her touch, she reached out and took his hand, her heart hammering madly on the inside of her ribcage, "I think the Inspector's still outside waiting for me. I should be on my way. It was…" her voice drifted off, and so she cleared her throat, "It was nice meeting you, monsieur."

"Antoine," he corrected her, shifting in his bed so that he was sitting up. Her cheeks flushed with color once more.

"It was nice meeting you…Antoine," she breathed, and when she felt him squeeze her hand ever so tenderly in his, she thought that her face must've become as red as a beet. On trembling knees, she got to her feet, and, with one, long lingering look back at Prevot, opened the door and left. The moment she stepped outside, however, she longed to be back, as though she'd just stepped away from the sunshine and into complete darkness.

The Inspector could see how flustered she looked, could see the blush on her cheeks and how her eyes danced about merrily, and it only soured his mood further. He said nothing, however, and only began to walk down the hallway at her side. Eventually, once they were nearing the exit, she spoke up, "I don't understand why you think he's so inept. He's kind, and smart, and-"

"If you insist on singing his praises, mademoiselle," he droned, "Please, do not do it in my presence."

"What do you have against him?" she demanded, not willing to listen to him speak ill of Prevot, "I think he's one of the most honorable policemen I've ever met."

At that, Javert only rolled his eyes, but couldn't find it in him to continue such a petty disagreement when he had other things to think about; all of which related to work and not this foolish, newfound friendship between Éponine and his subordinate. Éponine said nothing more as well, and they completed their walk together with an irritated silence hanging over the two of them.

* * *

Every day until he was released, Éponine visited Prevot, sometimes in the company of Javert but oftentimes alone. She still couldn't find herself able to understand why the Inspector seemed perpetually angry with Prevot, when the man had surely not done anything to incur his wrath in recent days. Perhaps they'd had a disagreement in the past, but when she asked Prevot about it, he could not remember doing anything to incite Javert's temper – besides losing control of his horse one day, falling off, and nearly causing the Inspector to do the same. But, he insisted, that had only been a minor accident, and surely it was nothing that could cause Javert to hold a grudge against him. As the days passed, they grew closer, speaking sometimes for hours on end and never once finding themselves encountered with an uncomfortable silence. Éponine thought that he always seemed to know what to say, how to charm her, and soon, she found almost her every thought was about Prevot: his handsome face, mesmerizing eyes, intoxicating smile. Swept up in a whirlwind of girlish fascination as she was, she did not see the licentious looks he gave her on occasion, the lust that burned black in his eyes when he caught a glimpse of her body. As with everyone newly infatuated with another, she was blind to his flaws, deaf to the warnings she was given. Éponine convinced herself that everything he did was perfect, and though Javert attempted to express his wariness of Prevot to her many times, she would not listen to a word he said.

"I am to be released the day after tomorrow," Prevot informed her one afternoon, seeming much more cheerful because of the fact, "And after that, I'll be back to work in a few days."

"Good. It's about time you're out of here," she remarked, "Do you miss work at all?"

"I miss the pay," he chuckled, "I don't miss working under Javert. He seems even more irritated with me now than he did before. I tell you: he's got it out for me. Or… perhaps…" he lowered his voice, reaching out his hand and brushing her chin, "he's simply jealous I've caught your attention. After all, what man wouldn't be?"

She stopped breathing for a moment, then bowed her head slightly and murmured, "Don't be ridiculous."

"I am not being ridiculous," he moved his hand under her chin and tipped it upward so that her eyes met his once more, "I am simply being honest."

Before she knew it, she felt herself leaning toward Prevot, her body controlled by something other than her mind; an instinct, to move in closer, to lay her lips upon his. Somehow, it felt right to her, as if not doing so would be going against Fate, against all sense and reason in the world. Their lips met gently at first, with Éponine remaining quite timid and uncertain of exactly what to do, but eventually, Prevot urged her a little closer. He did not deepen the kiss, however, and instead it remained innocent, chaste, untainted by lust or passion. Without even a hint of roughness, Prevot reached a hand up and entangled it into her hair, making a quiet noise of satisfaction at the feeling of her soft tresses encircling his fingers. They remained like that for a minute, and Éponine couldn't recall ever being kissed and adore with such gentleness; it'd always been rough and violent with 'Parnasse, and she had never known anything but that. Yet now she did, and she felt the sudden urge to laugh, to dance and skip around with joy. Someone adored her, at last! Finally someone adored her enough to touch her tenderly, speak to her sweetly, and her heart felt so full that she thought it might burst.

Unbeknownst to Éponine and Prevot, they were not alone. Having finished his morning patrol, Javert had decided to journey to the hospital to see if Éponine was there once more – which he knew was very likely, since she'd been spending almost all her days with his injured officer. He'd intended to go and bring her back to the station and prevent her from spending an exorbitant amount of time with the fool Prevot. Just as he'd approached the room, however, he'd seen from a distance that Éponine and Prevot appeared to be leaning in close to one another, and he arrived at the doorway just in time to see their lips meet. He looked on in revulsion as they remained like that for a minute, unable to say anything, unable to move a muscle in his body. Though he was slightly shocked by it, more than anything else, he was angry – furious, even, to see one of his men in such proximity to his informant. The Inspector found that he felt positively territorial as well, as though by kissing Éponine, the idiot Prevot was challenging his authority, throwing his insolence in Javert's face. Éponine was his informant, he thought to himself as he snarled under his breath – not anyone else's, and certainly not Prevot's. Javert almost could not remember the last time he'd felt so possessive of anything or anyone, and he had to struggle not to barge in and pull Éponine off of the boy.

However, he breathed out slowly to calm himself as he'd long ago taught himself to do, and, after keeping quiet for a moment, cleared his throat to alert Éponine and Prevot of his presence, raising his chin and not at all endeavoring to mask his fury with apathy. He wanted Prevot to see and fear him, just like he should, and he felt somewhat satisfied when Éponine tore her mouth from his and shot to her feet, her brown eyes wide with terror. Prevot looked scared as well, and though it satisfied Javert somewhat, he was still fuming – not only at Prevot, but also at Éponine, for falling for his officer's advances, for being so terribly naïve.

"I have come to escort the mademoiselle back to the station," he bit out. Without saying another word to Prevot and instead only squeezing his hand in a tacit farewell, she walked over to Javert and followed him as he stormed out of the room and down the hallway. After a moment, he stopped, and, fearing what would happen if she didn't, she did as well, but did not dare to meet his eyes, as she could nearly feel the anger radiating off of him in waves.

"Are you a fool?" were the first words out of his mouth.

She blinked, but her eyes quickly ignited with a fury that matched Javert's, "No. What? What is it?"

"You should not have such an affinity to any of my subordinates – certainly not Prevot."

"Why not?" she scowled, "He's compassionate, and he's never been anything but a gentleman to me. And I believe he cares for me-"

"He does not care for you," he spat, his voice a low, guttural growl. He resisted the urge to grab her shoulders and shake some sense into her, "However honest you may think his intentions toward you, mademoiselle, he only means to take advantage of your innocence."

"You're _wrong_," she shot back, "You're wrong about him-"

"I believe I know him far better than you do," he exhaled all at once, lowering his voice somewhat for he did not, in truth, really want to fight with her, "And if you do not pay heed to this warning I fear you will come to regret it later."

"Do you know what I think, Inspector?" she raised her voice, taking a valiant step toward him, "I-I think that you are so miserable in your own life that you simply cannot _stand_ seeing other people happy! Perhaps you can ruin others' happiness – but not mine! Prevot is good, and kind, and…" she could barely speak, and she let her anger take control of her tongue, "A-and he is a better man than you!"

Javert would never admit it, but her words did not bounce off of him with ease; they stung, burned, as if Éponine had reached out and slapped him. Unable to stand the sight of her any longer, his mien turned once more into indifference, his eyes cold, emotionless, "It is a pity you should think such a thing."

Before Éponine could say anything else – or express how much she wished she hadn't said those words – Javert spun around and was gone in seconds, leaving her standing alone in the hallway, her head spinning, wholly unsure if she should follow the Inspector and try to apologize or return to Prevot and feel once more the glorious feelings that rushed through her whenever she was near him. She thought for a moment, but eventually shook her head. Javert was wrong about Prevot, she thought to herself. She'd never been more certain of someone's misjudgment of another person before in her life, and she was far too irritated with the Inspector to consider telling him that she was sorry, anyway.

After a moment, she let out a frustrated sigh, turned, and began to make her way back toward Prevot's room.

* * *

Prevot was released from the hospital two days later, and returned to work a few days after that as he'd said he would. Every chance she got, she would speak with him, let him kiss her, and she loved nothing more than seeing him every day around the station and feeling her heart leap at the sight of him. Javert seemed to be keeping him fairly busy, however, and he was not often left idle or given the opportunity to be somewhat close to her. Both Éponine and Javert were still quite furious with one another, and both would not even spare the other a passing glance if they happened to find themselves in the same room. For a week, the Inspector had not asked for her help on any cases, and she wondered if it was not because he didn't need her help, but because he simply did not want to ask for it.

It was the evening of the nineteenth of January, and Prevot, Javert, and a few other officers had just returned to the station after breaking up a rather large fight that'd erupted in a nearby inn and nearly resulted in the deaths of two men. Since she knew it was the end of his shift, Éponine had been waiting to meet Prevot, and the moment he walked through the door, she sprang to her feet to greet him with a smile on her face.

"There you are. I've been waiting," she chirped, and he grinned.

He chuckled, taking her hand and placing a kiss on it, "Have you now? Then I suppose I'll have to ensure I am worth the wait."

Javert saw them, and, with the same possessiveness from before spreading furiously throughout his chest and shooting into his veins, he stormed off into his office, disgusted with the whole thing – so much so that he did not even bother scolding Prevot for displaying improper affection in the workplace.

Éponine watched him disappear with a heavy feeling in her heart, but was brought back to reality when Prevot leaned in close to her ear and whispered, "I have something for you. Might we go somewhere… alone?"

So beguiled by Prevot was Éponine that the connotation of his words flew right over her head, and she nodded eagerly, "Yes. I'll take you to my room. It's this way."

As Éponine led him down a few hallways and finally stepped into her quarters, she remained oblivious to the danger she was unwittingly walking into. Once they were there, she smiled at Prevot and took a seat on the bed, motioning for him to do the same. He shut the door and wasted no time in complying.

"What was it you wanted to give me?" she asked as her eyes lit up with almost childish excitement. She didn't see him holding anything in his hands, and raised an eyebrow because of the fact. Before she could say another word, however, Prevot moved closer and seized her lips, this time not at all attempting to keep the kiss light or chaste. His tongue pressed against her lips with urgency, seeking passage into her mouth, and she acquiesced slowly, uncertain what to make of this sudden onslaught of passion. He was no longer kissing her gently as he'd done before; he was almost attacking her lips with his, laying siege to them, and she didn't understand what'd gotten into him all of a sudden. Once she granted him entry into her mouth, he delved in deeply, his tongue running over all parts of her mouth and entangling with hers. When he bit down on her lip gently and began to lay her body down on the bed, his hands wandering aimlessly across her chest, she squirmed, disconcerted slightly by this new position, with his body weighing so heavily on hers. Since she was not a virgin, it quickly became clear to her what he wanted, and so she tore her mouth from his. She cared for Prevot – of course she did – but she did not feel quite willing to give her body to him after knowing him for only little more than a week. Surely, she thought, when the time came for them to make love, it would be slow, loving – not clumsy and hasty and sloppy like this.

"C…could we stop?" she panted, each breath coming hard and fast as he moved his lips to her neck, "I don't want to-"

All at once, without the slightest warning, his countenance changed, his features becoming dark, twisted, his once kind eyes now cruel and merciless. He grabbed both her wrists tightly in his hands and pinned them down on either side of her shoulders, "Be quiet."

Fear ripped through her, and she began to thrash against his hold on her, "Let me go! Get _off _of me!"

"Shut up," he hissed, bits of saliva flying from his mouth and making her cringe, "I saved your life; the least you could do is give me a little something in return."

Bewildered by this sudden change in him, she shook her head in disbelief. Tears began to burn in her eyes, and she struggled not to cry, "But…but I thought you cared for me-"

"Cared for you?" he nearly laughed, "Who would care for an ugly whore like you?"

At that instant, Éponine was torn between immense sorrow and anger. Her head spinning, she eventually decided that she could not settle on sorrow – at least not now. She could be sad later; all she had to do now was ensure Prevot did not get what he wanted. So she struggled even more, kicking her legs and flailing her arms around so that it was not as easy for him to restrain her. Fearing she would scream, he shoved his hand over her mouth, but she was quick to find a way to bite down on it and force him to draw back in pain. She took that opportunity to scream as loudly as she could, but within seconds, he was covering her mouth again, muffling her cries.

Prevot seemed almost amused by her attempts to get away, "There's no one here but the two of us. Javert's out on patrol, and the rest of the officers have gone home for the night." He leaned in closer to her face, his breath hot in her ear, "There's no one here but us, mademoiselle."

With horror, she realized that he was right. The Inspector always patrolled on this day once a week, and none of the other policemen ever bothered to stay any later than they had to. Éponine fought back tears with all her might, but they trickled forth from her eyes nonetheless and dampened her cheeks. A horrible realization crept into her mind, forcing even more of the liquid sorrow from her eyes.

Javert had been right, and she'd been too blinded by infatuation to realize it.

Had there been any signs? None that she could remember, anyhow, but most of the time she'd spent with Prevot she'd been lost in his eyes, fascinated by his smile, put in a trance by his smooth voice. She, who had been raised to sniff out even the tiniest hints of danger, had not been able to see Prevot's true colors, and at that moment, more than anyone else – even Prevot – she hated herself, for not listening to the Inspector, for being such a fool. Prevot began to unbutton his jacket, then, but he only had time to unfasten a few of the buttons before the door swung open, and a tall, imposing shadow became visible in the moonlight. Since her eyes were closed, she did not see who it was at first, but she felt great relief wash over her when the person yanked Prevot off of her with ease and dragged him out the door roughly.

Javert, having been sitting in his office instead of going on patrol as he'd planned – for something, though he knew not what it was, had compelled him to do so – had heard the scream and known the second it occurred what was going on. He'd been anticipating it, when Prevot would finally try to make an advance on Éponine and she would refuse, and so he stalked down the hallway to her room as fast as he could. As soon as he'd removed Prevot from on top of the teary-eyed Éponine, he pulled the boy outside with such tremendous force that it nearly tore his skinny arm from its socket. Though every bone in his body was beckoning him to beat his subordinate senseless, he settled on locking his hands in handcuffs and shoving him up against a wall with all his might.

"I assume you understand your dismissal is imminent, Prevot," he said in a voice that could have paralyzed even the most fearless of criminals in Paris, "As is your arrest."

"No jury will convict me," he said, though part of him did not honestly believe it, "The word of a street rat won't hold up against mine."

The Inspector found it was becoming increasingly hard not to hit him over the head and render him unconscious, "Perhaps. But unfortunately your word, _boy_, will never hold up against mine."

After shoving Prevot into the tiniest, dirtiest cell in the station, Javert returned to Éponine's room, uncertain what kind of emotional state in which he would find her. During the time he'd been gone, she had managed to fix her disheveled clothing and prop herself up against the wall, trembling and hugging her arms to her chest. When she looked to Javert as he walked inside, he saw the unshakable grief in her eyes, the devastation that came from discovering the boy she'd thought had cared for her had not cared at all. The Inspector felt something akin to pity for Éponine, and he advanced toward her slowly, kneeling at the side of the bed and looking her over cautiously.

When he tried to speak, his mouth felt dry, "Are you all right, mademoiselle?"

Éponine said nothing at all for a moment, but eventually, after biting down on her lip hard in an attempt to stay her tears, she climbed down off of the bed and flung herself into his chest, wrapping her arms tightly around him and letting herself snivel quietly into his shoulder. Stunned, Javert remained as still as a statue and did not at all attempt to return her embrace, for he was sure that he'd almost forgotten how. Being so close to someone in such a manner felt foreign to him, but at the same time, not so much so that he was inclined to push her away and leave her to cry alone.

"You were right," she managed to say, her voice quivering, "You were right. I should've listened. You…you knew this would happen all along, didn't you?" Éponine raised her head to look up at him, "_You knew._"

She did not sound accusatory; instead, she sounded livid with herself for not paying any mind to his warning when it'd been so forcefully expressed to her. Not wanting to tell her that she was absolutely correct – that he had in fact been right, that she should've listened all along – Javert paused, and then said only, "Yes."

Once more, her head disappeared into his shoulder as her small hands grasped onto his back, clinging to him as though she was drowning amidst all her sorrow and he was her last chance of salvation. Her tears slowly died down until they were barely audible at all, and she sniffled, "I-I didn't mean it, when I said he's a better man than you." She stopped, a choked noise somewhere in between a hiccup and a sigh forcing its way out of her, "I'm sorry."

Eventually, she shifted her head so that one side was leaning against his chest, allowing her to breathe properly once more without the fabric of his shirt in the way. She loosened her hold somewhat on him but still did not seem willing to let go, and Javert found himself forced to place one of his arms around her to keep her from tumbling to the ground.

"I would have done the same," Javert asserted lowly, speaking the words without thinking them over first. Confused, she looked up at him, and he shied away from her gaze, unsure of what had driven him to say such a thing. Nevertheless, he continued with the utmost confidence, for he knew what he was saying was the truth, was a fact, "Had I been standing where Prevot was, I would have taken that bullet for you instead."

Upon hearing those words, Éponine swore all the breath left her body for a moment, and she remained in perfect stillness, listening only to the steady, rhythmic thumping of Javert's heartbeat where her head lay. She'd never heard him speak so quietly and so passionately, as though trying to ensure that she did not doubt him for a moment, and as soon as she heard his words, she knew without a doubt that he was speaking the truth, that he would've let himself be shot and perhaps even killed to protect her.

Éponine looked up at him and forced a tiny grin through her tears, "I know."

Neither Éponine nor Javert said any more, being that both their mouths had run dry of words, and instead they only remained like that as the thickness of the night swept the pair up in its clutches. They did not speak to one another again that night, yet somehow they did not feel the need, for it seemed they could understand each other rather well in the silence.


	13. XIII

**Note: **Released early because it's admittedly not the most eventful of chapters. There will be another update Sunday as usual. Enjoy!

* * *

**XIII**

* * *

After that night, something shifted in Javert's perception of Éponine. It took him a week to figure out what, exactly, it was, and once he did, he was almost unnerved by the realization he came upon.

He, who had not truly valued another person in years, cared for Éponine. It had angered him to see her be taken advantage of, troubled him to see her in tears, hurt him to be insulted by her. She'd somehow managed to bring on a sudden rush of emotions that Javert had hardly ever felt before, and, of course, his first instinct was to push anyone who came close to him away – so far away that they never ran the risk of invading his thoughts again. But for some reason, the Inspector could not do that to her, could not banish Éponine back into the slums and resume his life as it had been before. He had come to enjoy her presence far too much to do such a thing, and he realized, suddenly, that he was in too deep, that he'd trapped himself. He cared about her too much to push her away like he would've done to anyone else, and though the logical part of his mind told him to do just that, it was too late for him to return to the past and pretend as though they'd never known one another. Their lives had become entangled with one another, and, like vines hopelessly entwined, separation was nearing impossibility at this point. Somehow, in the few months they'd known one another, Éponine had become far more of a prominent figure in his life than he'd ever anticipated, crashing into his world out of nowhere and seeming quite content to stay there indefinitely.

In the days since Prevot had tried to force himself on her, she hadn't been talking as much or prancing happily around the station like she usually did, but slowly, Javert could see that she was beginning to perk up, the dreary clouds over her head dissipating and giving way to sunshine once more. Her little grins and laughs were returning after a week's absence, and he found himself somewhat relieved that she did not seem completely devastated by the loss of Prevot. In the end, despite Javert's best efforts, Prevot had not been sentenced to prison time, but the Inspector had made sure that the fool would never again find work as a policeman in Paris. Short of physically harming the boy himself, it was the best he could do, he'd explained to Éponine, and it'd seemed to solace her, knowing that he would never be put in a position of responsibility here again.

The whole ordeal with Prevot had forced a change in Éponine as well, and she endeavored to spend more time with Javert, even if it was only sitting in silence with him in his office or accompanying him when he took walks in places in which she was not likely to be recognized. After Prevot had betrayed her, Éponine found her trust in Javert strengthened, and she clung desperately to it, to him; the man she knew would never harm her in the way his subordinate had, the only man who embodied stability and constancy in her life. They had both been lonely before, but now, in one another's presence, with one another's trust, they were no longer, and though Javert told himself that he did not mind being lonely, he was not displeased that she'd relieved some of his solitude.

In time, January came to a close, and February rose up to take its place. On the third day of the month, Javert was summoned to investigate a murder a few streets over that'd appeared to have occurred only half a day or so before, and, having little else to do, Éponine insisted on coming along as well. Her life had been quite lacking in the way of excitement for a few weeks, and the thrill of a mystery seemed the perfect thing to put an end to the monotony. Javert agreed, for he'd learnt after the Saint-Hilaire murders that having her alongside him had proved quite beneficial to an investigation. She had a keen eye and a good perception of those around her; two things that could only ever assist him.

They left the station around noon and arrived at their destination shortly afterward. The scene of the crime was the flat above an old bakery, and as soon as they arrived, an officer guided them up a flight of stairs and to a door, pushing it open and letting them inside. The flat was a fairly large living area in terms of size, but the number of beds – two in the whole of the place – led Javert to believe that only a few people lived there; a married couple and a child, perhaps. Immediately upon entering the flat, the Inspector spotted the body lying limp on the floor: a man of no more than thirty-five, with light brown hair, a slender face, and large, round glasses. There was no blood to be seen anywhere, and the Inspector concluded that the man had either been strangled or had his neck broken. Because of the unnatural sideways angle of his head, Javert quickly decided that it was the latter, and folded his arms over his chest as he assessed the situation further. There were no signs that the flat had been broken into – no smashed windows or broken-down doors – and there was not much sign of a struggle either, save for an end table lying on its side and a rug that had been crumpled up against a wall. No other objects in the room looked disturbed, and Javert knew enough to know that that was not a random act of violence, nor was it was burglary. Whoever had killed this man had known him and wanted to kill him solely for the sake of killing him – not for monetary gain or anything of the like.

Éponine stepped inside behind Javert, then, and closed her eyes upon seeing the body, lowering her head slightly out of respect for the poor man before her. She did not cry, however, and successfully willed away the tears, as she was well aware she could not shed them every time she went with Javert to a crime scene and saw a murder victim. Still, she could not entirely fight off her sorrow at seeing the cold hand of Death strike people down so long before their time, and so she only stood there for a moment, solemnly looking upon the man and wishing him peace in the afterlife.

"When was he found?" Javert asked the other man, drawing the thick silence to a close.

"Earlier this morning. He was found by an employee of his – an old woman named Brigitte, who works at his bakery," he replied.

"There was no one else here?" Javert stepped further into the room as he looked around.

"None that we know of yet. The woman did tell us that he has a child; a daughter of six, but she is nowhere to be found. Her mother passed away only a short while ago, and from what I was told, it seems that it was only the two of them living here."

Javert knelt down beside the man, "What was his name?"

"Alexandre Cuvier. His daughter is called Louise."

Javert said nothing for a while, appearing to be in deep thought, and so Éponine and the other officer did not speak either. Suddenly, out of nowhere, they heard a rustling noise come from behind a closed door that appeared to be some kind of closet. The Inspector rose to his feet with all haste, and, with one hand on his truncheon, motioned for Éponine to stay back as he made his way toward the door. Slowly, he reached for the doorknob and then, as fast as he could, yanked it open, ready to apprehend whoever was hiding inside. When his eyes found those of a little girl, however, his shoulders relaxed, and his hand fell to his side. She let out a terrified shriek upon seeing the tall, menacing Javert, and threw up her hands to cover her face, thinking that, perhaps, he meant to kill her. Stunned, all he could do was stare at the girl for a moment, and before he could say anything, Éponine walked over beside him, then began to advance toward the closet slowly. As soon as the young child saw Éponine – who had kind eyes and was not nearly as frightening as Javert – she lowered her arms, but still looked scared out of her wits, her blue eyes red rimmed and her blonde hair messy, strands flying here and there about her face.

Javert only watched without a word as Éponine crouched down and extended her arms to the girl, trying as best she could to appear harmless. She shushed her gently, "It's all right. We're not here to hurt you; I promise." She sucked in a breath, "Is your name Louise?" The child nodded, her cheeks soaked with tears, and clutched her small arms to her chest, "You can come out, Louise. There's no one here to harm you."

Assured by Éponine's words, Louise sprang out of the closet all of the sudden and ran into her arms, almost knocking her over as she did so. The little girl wrapped her thin arms around her neck and held on tightly, in the way only utterly terrified people could cling to someone else. Louise began to cry almost as soon as she'd buried her face into Éponine's shoulder, and so Éponine stroked the back of her head slowly and hushed her once more. In truth, she felt like crying herself, for it was clear to her that this child, hardly more than a babe, had either seen or heard her father being killed, and, fearing for her life, had had to conceal herself to avoid being killed as well. She bit down hard on her lip and hugged Louise tighter, ensuring her without a word that she was no longer in danger. All the while, as she consoled Louise, Javert only looked on, his lips pressed into a grim line, thinking to himself that it was quite fortunate Éponine was here, or else the child likely would have remained petrified of him and unwilling to come out.

He pitied her, of course, but what was of greater importance to him at that moment was the fact that the girl Louise had almost certainly witnessed a murder and would, hopefully, be able to identify the perpetrator. Once Éponine had picked Louise up – without difficulty, as the girl was a slight thing indeed – the Inspector walked over beside her and clenched his jaw, uttering in a hushed tone, "I will need to speak with her. She may have seen the killer. She may know who they are."

Éponine glared at him, her gaze protective as if Louise was her own child, and replied in an equally soft voice, "Does it look like she can speak?" She frowned, worry bleeding into her eyes as she petted the child's head, "Her father's been killed right in front of her. Please, Inspector…" she swallowed, and her eyes grew wide and suppliant, "don't question her right away. It'll only scare her more."

Javert breathed out sharply, but relented nonetheless, for he found, as of late, that he hadn't been able to refuse Éponine much. He nodded toward the door, then looked to the other officer, "Question the man's neighbors and find out what you can. Report back to me once you've finished." The man nodded, and Javert looked to Éponine, "Come. We will take her back to the station." His eyes ventured over to the dead body on the floor, which his colleague had thankfully covered with a sheet so that Louise would not be able to see it. Javert lowered his eyes mournfully, thoroughly sickened by the whole thing, "She oughtn't remain here any longer."

* * *

They made their way back to the station, Éponine clutching Louise all the while and continuing to comfort her, as the child hadn't stopped crying ever since they'd first found her. The sound of Louise's sobs troubled both Éponine and Javert, and though her arms grew tired from supporting her weight, Éponine would not dare let go of her. There had been countless times as a child when she'd needed someone to hold her as though they'd never let her go, and if she could give a sense of security and safety to this girl, then she would; she would not deny to Louise what had been always denied to her. When they arrived, Éponine took Louise to her room and set her down on the bed. The girl let go of her for the first time, but her tears did not cease and she still did not speak. Éponine knelt beside Louise, promised that she would return in only a few minutes, and, after receiving a meek nod of comprehension from the girl, left the room. She eventually came upon Javert's office and let herself inside, finding the Inspector standing with his back facing her at one of his bookshelves. He turned to look at her after hearing his door open, and she took a shaky breath.

"I took her to my room," she told him softly, "She still won't say a word."

"That is unfortunate," he grumbled, "If she won't say a word, I cannot question her."

Irritated by hearing him speak of Louise as though she was so very trivial and worthless, she frowned, "She's not just a…a source of information, you know. She…" her voice cracked, growing dry, hoarse, "She's just a little girl." Javert did not seem to know what to say, and after a moment, she blurted out, "What's going to happen to her? After she tells you what she knows?"

Javert shifted uncomfortably, aware that Éponine would not find his answer to her satisfaction. Nevertheless, he cleared his throat and told her, "If none of her relatives come forward to take her to live with them…she will be sent to an orphanage."

As he'd predicted, she looked utterly devastated by this, and when she tried to talk, all that came out of her mouth was a pathetic squeak. She cast her eyes down to the floor, then to the side, but eventually looked back up at him. Éponine swallowed, "Y-you can't send her there! She'll starve there! You remember that night, when we saw that orphanage and all those children, don't you?" Thinking back to that night, he evaded her gaze, and so she moved closer to him still so he could not avoid her presence, "Don't let that happen to her."

"What do you suppose I do with her?" he frowned, "She cannot stay here."

"She can stay with me," she insisted, "She can have my bed; there's another mattress underneath it I can sleep on. It won't be forever – just until we find someone to take care of her. Please, Inspector. She shouldn't have to know such misery."

She licked her lips and held her breath as she waited for the Inspector to respond, and for a while, Javert hesitated to do so. Allowing Éponine this would be preposterous, he thought with a scowl. He could not have a child running around the station; it was a place of business, not a place for a young girl to stay. Then again, he thought, the girl likely wouldn't be as rambunctious or energetic as most children. She had just seen her father killed, and Javert realized, then, that sending her off to an orphanage after such an ordeal would be rather cruel on his part. He did not, of course, have a problem at all with being cruel to those who had broken the law, but this child Louise had done nothing to deserve such a horrid fate – had broken no laws, caused no one any harm – and, with a frustrated noise loosing itself from his throat, he discovered that he could not bestow it upon her with a clear conscience. It made Javert almost furious to be kind or merciful at all, and it made him infinitely more furious to think that Éponine had somehow managed to spark these ridiculous feelings of kindness and mercy within him.

"She may stay here," he growled, "but if no one is found to care for her by the middle of this month, she must leave." She smiled and looked as if she meant to hug him, but he stepped away and put up a hand to stop her, "Now go. I have work I must do."

With another grin, she turned and hurried back to Louise, for she knew the girl likely did not want to be alone at the moment. When she returned, she found her exactly as she'd left her: the girl looked frozen, and it was apparent she'd barely moved a muscle since arriving in the room. She looked frighteningly pale, her face stricken by terror, her eyes wide and taking in her surroundings apprehensively. When she stepped inside, Louise flinched and began to tremble, but relaxed somewhat when she saw it was only Éponine. Slowly, as if approaching a butterfly that was poised to fly away, Éponine made her way over to Louise and took a seat on the bed beside her, angling her body so that she was facing the child.

"I don't believe I ever told you my name," she said quietly, "I'm Éponine." Louise looked at her, but said nothing, and Éponine reassured her, "It's all right if you don't want to say anything. You don't have to."

They remained in silence for a few minutes, until Louise finally spoke, her voice high and shaky, "Papa's dead…i-isn't he?"

At a loss for words, Éponine said nothing, and the girl's face crumpled up, little sobs beginning to wrack her body once more. Gently, Éponine drew the girl into her shoulder and wrapped her arms around her. She knew there was not a thing in the world she could say to make her feel better and so she did not attempt to comfort her with words about God and heaven; she only held her and tried to solace the poor child as best she could. Eventually, Louise reached the state in which she could weep no more, for it hurt her chest to do so, and so she quieted down, her cries becoming only occasional sniffles and hiccups.

Éponine patted her hair and piped up at last, "It's all right."

"W-w-what's going to happen to me?" Louise choked out, and Éponine felt her heart grow heavy in her chest upon hearing this little girl's fear.

She took one of her hands and laced her fingers into hers, "Nothing. You're going to stay here with me."

"Th-that man…the tall one…"

"Inspector Javert?"

Louise nodded, "H-he wanted to know if…if I saw who did it."

Quietly, Éponine asked her, "Did you?"

Again, the child nodded, "But I don't want to talk to him. He scares me."

"He scares everyone. And you don't have to tell him what you saw right now." She shifted, and Louise nestled her head into her shoulder once more. Éponine sighed and pushed a strand of the girl's honey hair from in front of her eyes, "Right now you can just rest."

* * *

Wearily, as though she were sleep-walking, Éponine made her way back to Javert's office half an hour later. Louise had finally managed to cry herself to sleep and was slumbering so soundly that she'd not awoken even when had Éponine removed her from her shoulder, laid her down, and tucked a few blankets over her. She entered his office without knocking and found him just as she'd left him: absorbed in paperwork, with his head buried into a book. He looked up at her when she stepped inside, expecting her to say something, but instead all Éponine did was plod over to one of the chairs before his desk and fall into it, leaning back into it and folding her arms over her chest.

"She fell asleep," she murmured despondently, "She said she saw what happened."

He nodded, seemingly encouraged by this, "Then I will question her when she awakes."

She gave him a weak, feeble smile, but sadness remained buried deep within her eyes, "She thinks you're terrifying."

That did not surprise Javert in the least; he scared nearly everyone he met, and children especially so. He was about to open his mouth to respond when there was a knock on his door. The Inspector folded his hands on his desk and gave the person on the other side of the door leave to enter, ending his conversation with Éponine, "Come in."

The door opened and one of Javert's officers – the one who'd been there at the scene of the crime – was revealed. He cleared his throat, "Inspector, I questioned the victim's neighbors as you ordered me to. There is a man here who would like to speak with you. He claims he has information about the deceased's final days."

A short, pudgy middle-aged man dressed in relatively nice clothing stepped inside from behind the officer, and Javert rose to his feet to receive him, walking past his desk and coming to stand before his subordinate and the other man, "Greetings, monsieur."

"Hello, Inspector," he said as he took Javert's hand and shook it firmly, "I am Arnaud LaRoche."

The Inspector nodded, then pulled out his pencil and paper on the off chance that the man knew something that was overly useful to the case. After a moment, he motioned for his officer to leave, and so he did, but Éponine remained in her chair, watching in silence as Javert nearly had to wrench his hand from the man's grip to regain use of both his hands.

"You say you know something about this man? Monsieur Cuvier?"

He nodded, "Yes, I was a regular customer at his bakery. Normally I prefer to buy my groceries in a more…upscale neighborhood, but Monsieur Cuvier made the best bread in the whole of Paris. Did you ever get the chance to try it?"

Javert glanced up at him briefly, "No. Unfortunately I never had the opportunity."

"What a shame!" the man chuckled, seemingly unaware that Javert did not care much about what he was saying, "Anyway, I was there the day before last waiting to pick up my order, and in stormed a man – tall, dirty, angry-looking. He looked quite like a criminal who intended to rob the place, but instead, he demanded to see Monsieur Cuvier. So Monsieur Cuvier stepped out and immediately, the man began yelling vulgarities at him. It seemed as though he and the Monsieur had once been business partners of some kind, though I'm sure any business that man is involved is not on the right side of the law. Monsieur Cuvier asked him to leave repeatedly, but the man would not listen."

"What was the man saying?"

"He was yelling things like, 'how dare you desert me?' and 'do you think you're better than us now?' From what I gathered, he and Cuvier used to be involved in some kind of illicit business together. Anyway, eventually, the man – who I believe was called Pourciau** – **stormed out, and Cuvier looked somewhat shaken by the whole ordeal."

"What did this man look like?"

LaRoche thought for a moment, "I'm not certain quite how to describe him. Very dirty, with black hair tied at the base of his neck. He wasn't tall, but not short either, and he was quite skinny. He looked as though he hadn't been eating well, and didn't appear to have a lot of money. I was surprised Cuvier would associate with such a man."

After jotting everything down, Javert closed the small notepad and straightened his back, "Thank you, monsieur. Your cooperation is appreciated."

"Any time, Inspector. I must say, though, that the world is no better off without Cuvier's bread," the man smiled somewhat sadly, and with that, disappeared out into the hallway. After he was gone, Éponine got to her feet with a small frown on her face, noticing that Javert seemed to be thinking quite deeply about something.

She folded her arms as she walked toward him, "What is it?"

"That name. Pourciau. I have heard it before," he cleaned his jaw as he thought, and then suddenly, as he was walking over to his desk, he remembered, "He was somewhat of a crime lord, owned pubs, led a street gang. His partner was a man going by the name of Gamache." He furrowed his brow, "We had been trailing the two of them, but a month ago Gamache disappeared, and no one could find out what became of him. Their crime ring fell apart without him. Pourciau was left penniless."

"What does that mean? Was Louise's father Gamache?"

He turned to her with a solemn expression set into his features, "It means," he paused for a moment to take a breath, "that perhaps Monsieur Cuvier was not the upstanding member of society we thought him to be."


	14. XIV

**XIV**

* * *

Three days after she'd first arrived at the station, Éponine managed to persuade Louise to speak to Javert. It hadn't been easy, as the girl had only said a handful of words to Éponine during the few days she'd been there, and Louise had insisted that Éponine be present while she spoke to the Inspector. Glad that the girl intended to speak at all, Javert agreed, and so Éponine brought Louise to his office instead of an interrogation room, for she'd insisted an interrogation room would only scare her even more and if she was to tell the Inspector what she'd seen, she would have to remain relatively calm, and have the questions spoken to her gently. Around noon, she took Louise to the Inspector's office, and the moment they entered and Louise caught sight of Javert, she scurried behind Éponine and buried her face into her skirts, whimpering in fear. Intrigued by the ease with which she spoke to children, Javert only watched as Éponine turned to her, knelt down, and placed both her hands on her shoulders.

"Don't be afraid. He's not going to harm you. He's going to find the person who hurt your father, all right?" Hesitantly, Louise nodded, and so Éponine stood once more and took her hand, leading her over to one of the chairs and sitting her down in it. She then took a seat beside her, and it only took a moment for Louise to abandon her chair and crawl once more onto Éponine's lap. Being that she was quite small for a girl of six years, she didn't weigh much, and Éponine was able to shift her so that the girl rested comfortably on her lap. Then, Éponine looked to Javert, her eyes encouraging him to speak softly and cautiously to Louise, and not be as demanding as he usually was when questioning someone.

Taking a deep breath, he nodded comprehension and began, endeavoring to keep his voice as gentle as he could, "As you know, mademoiselle, I am Inspector Javert. I am trying to find out what happened to your father, and if you tell me what you saw that night, it may be very helpful to me."

Éponine almost snickered at how uncomfortable Javert looked in that instant. It seemed as if he hadn't the slightest clue how to conduct himself around a child, and his slow and hesitant speech would've made her chuckle aloud had the situation not been so serious.

Afraid, Louise nodded, and Javert continued, "Can you tell me everything you remember?"

Though it seemed she did not want to, Louise removed her head from Éponine's shoulder and turned to look at the Inspector, her blue eyes timid, wholly unsure what to make of the man before her. She swallowed, but eventually began to speak in a voice that was barely audible to Javert, "Me and Papa were having dinner, and there was a knock on the door. Papa seemed to know that something was wrong, a-and so he told me to go in the closet and he'd tell me when it was safe to come out. He let the person in, and it was a man. A big, scary man. S-scarier than you, monsieur. He and Papa started yelling at each other. I don't remember what they were saying, but the man was angry at Papa. They fought for a while, and…and then…" A sob broke free from her mouth. She curled even more against Éponine as if seeking shelter from the world around her, "And then I-I-I heard a 'snap' and Papa fell down." Louise seemed to want to cry, but stayed as strong as she could and willed away the tears, "Th-the man left. I didn't see him take anything. I…I stayed in the closet all night. I thought he would come back to find me. I was so scared. I thought he was going to kill me too."

Éponine bit her lip and wrapped her arms around Louise, drawing her close as the girl finally dissolved into sobs. She could not imagine how horrible it would be to speak of such painful memories, and she could not help but admire Louise for her strength. The Inspector, not having received the description of the killer that he needed, looked to Éponine, uncertain of what to do at this point. She, however, was busy trying to console the girl, and so he stood, approaching them with the utmost trepidation and then kneeling down on one knee before Louise. In his many years in law enforcement, he had never had to face a situation like this – with a child as the only witness to a murder – and he quickly came to the conclusion that it was necessary that he put up the best façade of sympathy and compassion he could muster.

Éponine watched him intently as he fixed his gaze on Louise and said in softest, least commanding voice she'd ever heard from him, "What did the man look like?"

"I-I-I don't remember," she shook her head back and forth violently, "I don't remember."

"I implore you to try, mademoiselle," he said, his face stony and his voice steady, "It may help me stop the person who harmed your father from harming others."

Louise seemed to relax a little upon seeing how careful he was trying to be around her. Meanwhile, Éponine remained motionless, stunned into silence, as she'd scarcely ever heard Javert speak in such a manner and was quite surprised that he was capable of convincing the girl not to fear him. In that moment, she thought she could see signs of the human behind Javert's eyes once more, and she discovered she was transfixed by him in that moment, unable to look away.

After a moment, Louise spoke up, tearing Éponine from her reverie, "I-I looked through a crack in the door while they were fighting. He…he wasn't tall. He was skinny, and dirty, and ugly. His eyes were dark."

"Can you recall what he was wearing? The color of his hair?" Javert pressed.

Louise thought for a minute, then muttered, "H-his was dark, too. Long. Tied back. He looked like a…a-a _dog_." She bit her lip, her shoulders trembling, "I didn't see anything else, monsieur. I'm sorry."

Once more, Louise curled herself into Éponine. The Inspector rose to stand, tucking his notepad into his person, "Do not apologize, mademoiselle. You have helped me greatly." Javert looked to Éponine, and she seemed to understand that he had no more questions to ask Louise and that she'd best let the girl return to her room. So she stood, took Louise's hand, and led her to the door, leaning down and telling her quietly to return to her quarters. Wiping at her eyes, the young girl nodded and vanished down the hallway on unsteady legs.

Once she was gone, Éponine looked to the Inspector, and a feeling swelled within her that she couldn't explain. It gave her almost a sense of hope to see him be so kind, and without realizing it, she smiled, her eyes twinkling, "I didn't know you could act so kind."

He shifted slightly and cleared his throat, unaccustomed to being watched in the way that she was watching him, "She would not have told me anything if I hadn't. I did what was necessary."

"I think you're nicer to be around when you're like that. You should do it more often."

Javert looked at her somewhat disbelievingly and, though he seemed amused, only grumbled, "Do not hold your breath, mademoiselle."

* * *

After comparing Louise's description of the killer to LaRoche's description of the man who'd harassed Cuvier in his store and realizing they were nearly identical, the Inspector concluded that the man Pourciau was almost certainly the killer. As such, it was no longer an issue of identifying the culprit, and instead an issue of finding him – which, Javert thought, might prove difficult.

But no matter how challenging a situation seemed, he refused to think it insuperable, to even consider the possibility that there was no solution.

In order to better craft a profile of the man Pourciau, Javert consulted one of the officers who had gone undercover and gotten quite close to him and the man once known as Gamache. From him, he learned that the two men had been as thick as thieves, closer than brothers, until Gamache had suddenly disappeared, leaving the life of crime altogether and forcing Pourciau out on his own. Since Gamache had managed the business end of the most of their dealings, Pourciau struggled and eventually failed to keep their pubs and brothels, as he'd proved to be quite a maladroit handler of money. No one knew exactly why Gamache had left Pourciau behind, the officer said, for he was certainly making a handsome amount of money from the illicit things he did and would have no sensible reason to want to stop. Gamache's leaving had, apparently, left Pourciau furious and devastated. The officer told Javert he remembered Pourciau going off in a fit of rage after Gamache left – but, he said, he had also been able to see that Pourciau was terribly sorrowful and distraught after his brother had abandoned him. While he did not understand much of human emotion, the Inspector understood enough to know that such a close, almost familial bond between two people would not break without enormous repercussions, without grief and desolation.

Therefore, he was almost positive that Pourciau would attend his friend's funeral, and so, he decided, that was precisely how he would catch him.

Being that he had no known family, Monsieur Cuvier's funeral, which was scheduled to take place later that day, had been planned by a friend of his – the old woman who found his body, who worked with him at his bakery. Since the woman did not have a great deal of money – and since all of Cuvier's money was nowhere to be found – it was to be a small, inconspicuous affair, which, Javert thought, would make it far easier to find Pourciau if he decided to show his face.

In the morning, Éponine took Louise back to her father's flat and located one of her good dresses to wear to the funeral, then hurried her away to ensure they did not linger long at the scene of her father's murder. Then, Éponine cloaked herself in the better of her two dresses as well, and, after dressing himself in civilian clothing to blend in as best he could, Javert escorted the two of them to the small, rundown church in which the service was to be held. Éponine went to sit with Louise in one of the pews while Javert hung near the back, ready to pounce at even the tiniest sign that Pourciau was somewhere nearby. There were only about ten or twelve people attending the service, and the lot of them sat in silence as the priest droned on and on. No one was crying, Éponine realized after a while. There were few who even looked genuinely sad to mourn this man's passing. Éponine wondered, then, if Louise really understood what was going on, if her young mind could truly process the idea that her father was dead, murdered. In the middle of the service, Louise reached over and took Éponine's hand, her eyes beginning to glisten with tears, and it was at that moment that she realized Louise knew exactly what had happened. She understood the fact that her father was dead; she was not oblivious to the evils of the world any longer. Her innocence had been stolen, and Éponine knew well that once the precious purity of childhood was ripped apart, it was simply not possible for it to be recovered.

"I-it's not like Mama's funeral," she whispered, and Éponine had to tilt her head sideways to hear her properly. The little girl bit her lip, "There's less people. I thought the whole of Paris came to Mama's funeral." She swallowed, squeezing Éponine's hand harder, "Why did no one come to Papa's?"

Struck speechless by the sudden realization that this young girl, only six years of age, had attended the funerals of both her parents – and had so much faith in a father who was not who he seemed to be – Éponine took a deep breath and did not answer, instead only shaking her head and patting her hand lightly.

After another half an hour passed, they left the church and walked a short distance to a cemetery out back. On the way, Éponine managed to hand Louise off to the old woman who'd worked for the girl's father and slip over to Javert, who was making a point to stay near the back of the small crowd, his eyes constantly darting to and fro, analyzing any suspicious activity.

"Any sign of him?" she asked as her eyes scanned the area around them as well.

He shook his head gravely, "No."

"You are going to find him, aren't you?" she frowned, and he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

"If he does not come here, he wants to be sure that he will not be found," he let out a frustrated breath, "When most men like him do not want to be found, they will not be found."

"So you will not try?" she demanded, "You'll just… give up?"

"I said no such thing. But Monsieur Cuvier was no innocent man. It is probable he took the lives of many others-"

"A-and that makes him unworthy of justice?" she asked, though she knew he was right.

"It is not my place to decide who is unworthy of justice." He seemed as though he was prepared to say more, but suddenly, he found his eyes drawn towards a dirty man, clad in a tattered dark coat, standing near the gate to the cemetery. She furrowed her brow and followed his gaze. Immediately upon doing so, her eyes flew open wide.

"Is that him?" she hissed.

He did not look away from the man as he spoke, "There is only one way to find out." Before he stalked away, he turned to her and ordered, "Stay here. If he runs, I will give chase. Do not follow me." She nodded without a word, and only seconds later, he hurried away, circling around the back of the cemetery so that he was not visible to the man as he made his approach. Once he was close enough to the man, who still seemed unaware of the fact he was being watched, he spoke up without a second's hesitation, "Hello, monsieur."

The man jumped, then eyed him strangely and grunted, "Who're you?"

Javert ignored his question, "I am looking for a man going by the name of Pourciau. Do you happen to know him?"

Something flashed behind his eyes at that moment, and the man seemed to remember Javert and realize the danger he was in. Before the Inspector could blink, the man presumed to be Pourciau took off running. His stride was long and his pace quick, but Javert's was longer and quicker, and he caught up to him in a matter of moments. Éponine watched from a distance as the Inspector subdued the man with what looked to be little effort on his part, pinning him to the ground and cuffing his wrists as he'd done to countless criminals before.

"I suppose, monsieur," Javert spat as he pulled Pourciau to his feet, "that that is my answer."

The rest of the people around the gravesite finally seemed to notice what was going on, and Éponine rushed over to Louise, who was observing the scene with wide, terrified eyes.

"What's going on?" she squeaked as Éponine took her place beside her and urged her to look the other way.

"Nothing," she said quickly, directing her attention away from the struggle and back to the priest, who seemed quite perplexed by whole ordeal as well and had stopped talking for a minute. He snapped out of it quickly, however, and began again – and, though still uncertain what was going on, Louise turned and began to listen once more. Éponine looked back to Javert, and when their eyes met, he nodded at her, managing to make her understand without a word that she ought to stay at the service with Louise for the remainder of it and only return to the station with the girl when it was over. She nodded her head in return, and within seconds, Javert had vanished, taking Pourciau along with him and leaving the mourners in peace.

* * *

"I ain't done nothing," were the first words Pourciau spoke to Javert as the latter entered the interrogation room and took his place across from him at the table.

The Inspector's face remained impassive, "As of yet, I have not accused you of anything." He raised his chin, "Or is there something of which I should accuse you, monsieur?"

"No," he blurted out dumbly, then harrumphed "No, 'course not."

Though he did not believe him, Javert decided to beat no more around the bush, "You were once acquainted with a man called Gamache, were you not?"

"Yeah, I was," he leaned back in the chair and folded his arms, "Why do you care?"

"Five days ago he was found dead in the flat above his bakery. And I have reason to believe, monsieur, that you were there only a few days before he was killed. A witness says you had words with him."

Pourciau looked somewhat caught off guard at this, but shook off his surprise, "Don't know what you're talking about, Inspector."

Javert pressed onward, shooting to his feet all of a sudden and beginning to circle Pourciau like a shark in the water, "What was the exact nature of your relationship with the deceased, monsieur?"

"We was business partners."

"And what put an end to your partnership?"

"We got into a…disagreement, about how to split up the money," Pourciau lied easily, but the Inspector could see plain as day that he was not telling the truth.

"I see," Javert nodded, stopping in front of the table and placing both his hands on it, "And did this disagreement make you angry enough to kill?"

Pourciau shifted, but did not give in to Javert's attempts to frighten him. He sneered, "No, _Inspector_. It did not."

"Gamache was not the only person in that flat the night he was killed," Javert told him, "His daughter was there as well, hiding in a closet for fear she would be killed as well. And I do believe, _monsieur_," he spat the title in the same way Pourciau had his, "that if she was presented with the killer, she would very easily be able to identify them."

Pourciau was beginning to sweat. However, he took a breath and spat, "_I_ didn't kill him. And if Gamache went and got his neck broke then it's his own damn fault – not mine."

The Inspector nearly smirked. He had gotten Pourciau precisely where he wanted him, "Enlighten me, monsieur. How do you know that his neck was broken? No one save for the police should have such information."

Upon hearing those words, the other man seemed to realize he had trapped himself, and sweat beaded more profusely on his forehead, "I didn't…I…I-"

"Never fear. I will answer for you," the Inspector leaned in closer to him, "I believe you know how he was killed, because you are the one who killed him."

Unable to lie his way out of this situation, Pourciau hissed, "So what if I did, huh? That son of a bitch got what was coming to him." Javert could see that he meant to explain his reasoning and attempt to convince him that he had done the right thing, as did most people who confessed to murder. Though he did not really care to hear what he had to say, he took a seat and listened nonetheless. "It all started when his wife up and died. Typhoid or something, he said. Don't really know why he ever married that stupid whore in the first place; he was better off without her. But me and Gamache was like brothers – closer than brothers." He scoffed, "Anyway, when that bitch kicked the bucket, her _dying wish _was for him to get out of the life we was living. To take care of that brat of his – Louise, or whatever the hell her name is. Before I even knew it he'd abandoned me, for a kid! All we had – more money, women, and drink than we could ever need – for a kid! We was brothers, and all of a sudden he wants out of the partnership, goes and buys a damn bakery and changes his name!" He shook his head and growled, "Well I wasn't having none of it. No one crosses me like that and gets away with it. He wasn't my brother no more. He was nothing to me. I gave that bastard what he deserved."

For reasons he could not fathom, Javert felt utterly disgusted with the man before him – more so than he usually was with most murderers – and so he did not spare him another word; instead only getting to his feet and quitting the room, leaving Pourciau for his officers to take care of. As soon as he came upon the door to his office, he found Éponine and Louise standing there, the girl desperately holding onto Éponine and sniffling.

Éponine moved in closer to Javert, whispering so that Louise could not hear, "She doesn't have to see him and tell you he's the one she saw, does she?"

"No," he shook his head, his lips pressed in a thin, grim line, "He confessed."

Sensing that the Inspector and Éponine wanted to speak with one another alone, one of Javert's officers, Pierre – the one whom Éponine had befriend – took Louise by the hand and offered to show her a new toy she might enjoy playing with, since he knew how dull life around the station could get for a child. Though still tearful and frightened, the girl nodded and went along with him.

"Why did he do it?" Éponine asked as soon as the two were out of earshot.

Javert felt somewhat troubled by the whole thing, and it showed in the heaviness in his voice, "It was Madame Cuvier's final wish that he put an end to his life of crime to care for Louise." Boggled by the notion that the former criminal Gamache had been able to turn his life around, he paused, clenched his jaw, but eventually told her, "Cuvier left Pourciau behind, bought a bakery, changed his name."

Éponine seemed as though she was ready to cry, for that made the death of the girl's father even more tragic, "H-he did it all for her? For Louise?"

As he watched Louise and the old officer stroll off down the hall, Javert nodded regretfully and narrowed his eyes, "Yes. For Louise."

* * *

The news came a mere four days later: Alexandre Cuvier – whose real name was Matthieu Gamache – had had a wealthy brother called Bertrand who lived in the town of Bordeaux. Somehow, the man had found out about his brother's passing and sent one of his children's governesses to fetch Louise and take her to live with him. The Inspector told Éponine of the woman's impending arrival and, as he'd expected, she was nigh on heartbroken at the thought of Louise leaving. She and the girl had grown exceptionally close after only a week or so of knowing one another, and, though Éponine had known that this day would come eventually, she found she was not at all prepared to see her go. However dejected she was, though, Éponine was quick to remind herself that the life Louise would lead in Bordeaux would be far better than the one she had led here. Her father's brother Bertrand had made his wealth fairly and honestly, and she would likely be accepted into society there, would make a good marriage and live contentedly for the rest of her days.

Éponine was happy for her, of course, but she would not deny that it would be difficult to see her go.

The morning she was to leave, Éponine retrieved all of Louise's belongings from the old flat above the bakery and packed them in a small trunk to take with her to her uncle's home. There was not much in the way of possessions, really: a few dresses that would doubtlessly be replaced with finer ones, some dolls and other toys, a little handheld mirror, and a hairbrush. Éponine enclosed in the trunk a book of fairytales she'd bought for her as well, and then, after buttoning the young girl's cloak to shelter her from the cold, she took her out front to wait for the carriage, which was to arrive in only a few minutes or so.

She knelt down before Louise and adjusted the little hat on her head with a shaky smile. Before she could say anything, however, Louise wrapped her arms around her and embraced Éponine with a pout, "I'm going to miss you, 'Ponine."

"I know. I'm going to miss you too," she grinned, "But you know what?" The child shook her head, tightening her hold on her. "Where you're going, you're going to have lots of pretty dresses, and as many toys and dolls as you want, all right?"

"Won't you come with me?" she muttered, "You could be my governess, couldn't you?"

Éponine sighed, but tried not to make it obvious to Louise that she was sad as well, "I can't. I'm sorry. But your governess is going to be kind, I'm sure."

Louise lowered her eyes, "I won't like her as much as I like you."

"You don't know that," she said softly, taking her gloved hands and squeezing them gently as the carriage approached the station and halted out in front of it, "Perhaps you'll like her even more than me."

Louise smiled and shook her head, "I don't think so." Once more, she hugged Éponine and, after she broke away, the girl looked up to find Javert watching them silently from the doorway. She leaned in close to Éponine, then, and whispered into her ear, "I think the Inspector likes you, 'Ponine."

Éponine almost laughed, "What do you mean?"

"I don't know," she bit her lip, seeming to be deeply in thought for a second, "But… he doesn't look as mean when he's around you."

An older woman stepped out of the cab once it'd stopped outside the front steps of the station, and Éponine got to her feet, leaning down and placing a kiss on Louise's forehead, "Be good."

"I will. I promise," she looked up at Éponine, her bright blue eyes twinkling as she walked toward the woman Éponine supposed was to be her new governess, "Goodbye, 'Ponine."

"Goodbye, Louise," she called out in return, watching as the driver hopped down from his perch to take the girl's trunk and put in on the carriage. After stepping inside and closing the door behind her, Louise reached a hand out the open window and waved at Éponine. She continued to do so even when the driver whipped the horses, and they took off galloping down the cobblestone street at full speed. Éponine waved back until the cab had vanished into the thick, early morning fog covering the streets, and only then did she lower her hand and heave a deep sigh.

Out of nowhere, she heard someone approach her from behind, and glanced to her right to find Javert standing there, his hands locked behind his back as he surveyed the crisp morning around them with a sniff.

"I'm going to miss her," she remarked as a cold wind blew through and made her shiver, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

He heard even so, however, and shifted his weight from one leg to the other, "She could not have remained here forever. This is no place for a child."

"I know," she breathed in the frigid morning air, "But I'm glad. She won't have to know the misery that…we knew."

He looked over at her briefly, not used to hearing anyone refer to his past simply because he had never told anyone of it before. Nevertheless, he nodded in agreement, for he knew that she had spoken the truth. After that Éponine and Javert said no more, and they stared out at the dense fog in silence until it had lifted, revealing the streets and buildings of Paris buried underneath and letting the sun shine down on them once more. All the while, standing beside Javert as she was, she could hear Louise's words echoing within the confines in her skull over and over again. She had never really noticed a change in the Inspector when she was around; she knew he was not irritated by her presence like he once had been, but that was all. Éponine looked at him then, analyzing his stance, the ever-present frown on his face, his ice-like eyes, the determined angle at which he held his chin, and she furrowed her brow. She could find nothing different about him at that moment and so she looked away, not wanting him to see her watching him so closely.

Still, there was a part of Éponine that thought, for some odd reason, that she would very much like Louise's words to be true.


	15. XV

**XV**

* * *

One chilly morning in late February, Javert received word that a horde of gypsies had been brought in to the station after attempting to pull an elaborate ruse to rob the home of a wealthy bourgeois man. Since they were soon to leave Paris and needed money for their travels, their plan had been to distract the owner of the home just as he was returning to his house by using an old gypsy woman to divert his attention as five others ran into the place, took what they wanted, and snuck out undetected. However, things had not gone according to plan, and the master of the house's son and three of their servants had managed to fend off the thieves, then report the crime to the police. Javert's men had eventually came upon the gypsy encampment a few miles north of the site of the attempted robbery and brought all of them in, since no individuals had come forth to claim responsibility for the crime. As a result, the holding cells in the station were utterly packed with Roma; some cells designed for only five or six people held a dozen or more, and the prisoners did not hesitate to make their unhappiness known every time an officer would make his way past them.

After a few unbearable hours, the lot of them descended into chaos and began banging on the metal bars separating them from freedom, their dirty hands grabbing and hitting anyone who happened to walk by. One of Javert's men, after being grabbed and nearly assaulted by the gypsies, all but sprinted into the Inspector's office to inform him of this recent development. When he entered the office, he came upon Javert sitting at his desk writing, and noticed his informant Éponine sorting through paperwork slowly, having had nothing better to do and deciding that she might as well put her idle hands to use. As soon as he barged in, both occupants of the room looked up in surprise, but the officer hesitated to open his mouth for a moment, instead waiting for Javert to give him leave to speak.

The Inspector frowned and set down his quill pen, "What is it, Descombes?"

"Inspector, it's the gypsies," he blurted out, breathless, "They've started to…to riot. If they keep hitting the cell doors in this manner, they'll break them down. I-I don't know what to do."

Javert huffed and shot to his feet, grabbing his nightstick and starting toward the door, "Round up everyone you can find and bring them to the cells. We will need all the help we can get." Briefly, he turned to Éponine and ordered, "Stay here."

She nodded, though she did not intend to do any such thing, and once he had disappeared out the door behind his subordinate, she crept quietly after them, eager to see what was going on. Ever since he'd heard of the gypsies' arrival, something had been off about Javert, but she didn't know how to explain it other than that he seemed extremely uneasy and wary of everything around him. He looked somewhat wary of everything around him all the time, of course, but today he looked even more so, and she longed to know what had unsettled him so much about the imprisonment of these people. With a stealth learned from years of wandering the streets alone at night, she managed to follow him without making even the tiniest sound, moving with such great swiftness that it seemed her feet were barely touching the floor. Eventually, they reached the area were criminals were kept in the station, and her ears were met with what seemed to be dozens of shouts and screams. The gypsies were nearly throwing themselves against the doors now, hitting the metal bars continuously and sending loud, clattering sounds ricocheting down every corridor. Javert stopped before the entering the small area between cells, then assumed the most menacing expression he could – with a chilling gaze and flawless, upright posture – before grabbing his truncheon, brandishing it, and storming into the gaggle of hands reaching out from behind the bars. Éponine could only watch in silent terror as every hand went for him immediately, aiming to grab onto him and harm him in whatever way they could.

"Let us outta here, you bastard!" one man cried, "I didn't do nothing!"

"You've got no right!" another yelled, "No right at all!"

When Javert found himself tugged harshly to the right by several strong men, he hit the offending hands with his nightstick as hard as he could, causing the owners of those hands to draw back with cries of pain. The people on the other side who had grabbed onto him seemed to realize that continuing to do so would only hurt them as well, and so they let Javert go, shrinking back into their cells but not ceasing their belligerent words and curses.

Unwilling to stand such a ruckus anymore, Javert took a deep breath and bellowed, "Silence!"

Almost at once, the clamorous yelling died down, and every person quieted themselves, instead only looking on in shock and alarm at the man before them. Somehow, Éponine thought, most everyone understood from the moment they first saw Javert that he was a man to be feared, a man whose will was to be heeded without protest. This sentiment was not lost on the gypsies, and his deep, threatening voice sent shivers up their spines, prompting them to move away from the bars and toward the back of the cells, as far away from him as they could be.

"Once we discover who committed this crime, you will be released," he told them firmly, glaring at each and every one of them as his eyes scanned the crowd of people, "Until then, you will remain here indefinitely – unless, of course, one of you is willing to reveal to us who the culprits are."

Though they had not been before, now that they had endured these terrible conditions, the gypsies were all quite willing to comply with his wishes. Within seconds, they had pushed six people towards the cell doors: three men, two women, and a frail, elderly woman, surrendering them over as if they were not part of their family but their only tickets to freedom. Satisfied, the Inspector raised his chin and folded his arms as his eyes swept over the people they had given up. He looked at the men, and found that none of them were large or impressive in strength, which was likely how the servants in the house had been able to fight them off so easily. The women were also small and both looked horribly emaciated, their faces thin with prominent cheekbones and dull, lifeless eyes. They, like the rest of the Roma were, were clothed in rags, though a few were lucky enough to don clothing that looked new – and, Javert thought, was almost certainly stolen. Then, finally, his gaze shifted to rest upon the old woman who had distracted the owner of the home they'd attempted to rob – by using fortune telling or something of the like, he'd been told – and the very instant he laid eyes on her, he froze. Nearly every muscle in his body went rigid, stiff, and he clenched his jaw so hard that his teeth began to ache. He recognized her – no, not only did he recognize her.

He knew her.

She looked as if she could be any old beggar woman on the streets, really, but something – and Javert knew not what – was strikingly familiar about her, so much so that he could not tear his eyes from her. She looked to be about seventy years of age, and was hunched over slightly, clutching a moth-eaten shawl around her arms and trembling in the cold air. Her hair was grey, the thick curls matted together with strands flying off in all directions, and most of her teeth were missing. The few that she had were yellowed and dirty. Her nose was small and her face the shape of a heart, but her skin was littered with wrinkles, the deep ridges in her flesh speaking clearly of her old age. It was not, however, these things that caught Javert's attention, nor did he even pay much mind to them. It was her eyes that had stunned him so: they were light, ice-grey, familiar, and they forced all of the breath from his body for a minute. He knew those eyes.

He would know them anywhere, for they were his eyes as well.

Javert did not remember much of his the woman who was his mother, being that he knew himself to be likely only four or five when he'd last seen her, but he could not shake the haunting feeling that overcame him at that moment as his past returned to him all at once. Upon seeing this woman's eyes, a deluge of memories flowed into his mind before he could stop them; memories that had only just been recalled, that had been forgotten for years, banished to the deep recesses of his mind. He remembered the woman who'd borne him – who he refused to call his mother – when she was young, when her black hair was full, shiny, thick, and her dark skin was smooth. She had been beautiful, but had always seemed to regard him as merely a burden that she was perpetually forced to bear. Though he did not recall it, he knew somehow that she had given birth to him inside of a jail, and had taken him with her once she was released. They had traveled around for a few years with other gypsies, yet Javert could remember that her kind had always alienated him, for he was not truly one of them, did not have pure gypsy blood in his veins. He knew nothing of his father besides the fact that the man had not been Roma, and he had been forever caught in between two worlds during his childhood, hopelessly stuck in limbo and never to be fully accepted by anyone, for the gypsies hadn't wanted him and the white men hadn't wanted him, either. He had never had a friend to his name, never known a person who would look at him with anything other than disgust.

Pushing those thoughts aside, finally, he remembered that night – the night he had been abandoned – after so many years of being unable to recall it with clarity. Though the recollections were foggy and blurred, he knew that it had been snowing, on Christmas Eve. He did not know what town they had been in, but he could remember that it had been by the sea and that the wind had seemed even bitterer than it usually did during the winter months. The woman standing before him now – whose name, he remembered, was Mirela – had hurried him along down the empty streets near midnight, dressed in rags and shivering violently. He did not remember what had driven her to it, and he did not remember what she'd said to him or if she'd even spoken at all, but what he could remember, clear as day, was watching her from the steps of some tiny, overcrowded orphanage as she hurried away, not bothering to spare even a brief glance back at him. He could remember feeling alone, yet he did not, for some reason, remember feeling particularly sad or scared. He had simply been alone, and at his age he had not known what to make of such a feeling; it was what had led him to accept it as the norm in his later years, he supposed. Even though Javert's only memories of his mother were faded by the years, yellowed by time, he knew at that instant, without a doubt, that this was his mother, whom he'd barely known. How she had ended up here of all places he did not know. It made no sense to Javert, but no longer was she just a memory; she was here, real, standing right in front of him, and the only thing separating them now were thick metals bars, the barrier between those who obeyed the law and those who broke it.

Slowly, as if she was afraid to touch him, she reached out and took hold of his sleeve, "My son? Is it you?" Éponine's jaw dropped as the words came to her hears, and she chewed on her lip anxiously, unsure how Javert would react to this. Still, he did not speak, instead only looking over the woman with something akin to a mixture of shock and horror, and so she spoke again, her voice frail and trembling with age, "Javert, my child, I-"

Before she could say anything else, the Inspector snarled and wrenched his hand out of her gentle grasp, unable to bear the sight of her any longer. He saw her move away from the cell doors, confused and apparently horrified by this man she did not know, who seemed so frightening, so stoic and devoid of emotion.

"My son…" she breathed as she backed away slowly, "What has become of you?"

Even if he wanted to answer, he did not think himself capable of doing so, and so, with every gypsy in the room's eyes on him, he took one last look at the old woman and stalked away. Since she was standing very obviously out in the open, Javert saw Éponine as he passed by, but did not acknowledge her presence with anything more than a brief glance of disdain. She was just as shocked by this revelation as he was, and when he walked by her, she did not dare say a word to him. For a moment, her eyes sought out the woman that had identified herself as his mother, and she only stared at her, taking in every detail of her that she could. Aside from the color of their eyes, she did not resemble Javert all that much, really. The edges of her face were soft, while Javert's were hard and sharp, and her mien was far more gentle and approachable than Javert's. Éponine thought to herself that the old lady looked almost as though she was in physical pain after seeing the man that her son had grown into, and after a moment, the gypsy woman turned away, devastated by the encounter. Uncertain what to make of it all, Éponine swallowed and scampered off down the hall after Javert. Though he heard her footsteps, he did not look back at her, and after he'd reached his office and stepped inside, he slammed the door so loudly behind him that the walls shook and rattled, as though they somehow had enough sense to be afraid of him as well.

Éponine waited for a moment, but ultimately decided to go in after him – even if it was against her better judgment and she could not be certain what she would encounter upon entering. Inhaling steadily, she advanced towards the door, turned the doorknob, and slipped inside as quietly as she could, only to find Javert sitting at his desk, his hands placed on the back of his neck as he leaned his elbows on his desk. For once, he was not writing or attempting to do any sort of work; he was simply sitting, thoughts swirling like a hurricane within his mind and rendering his body completely motionless.

He did not look up at her when she asked, but she spoke even so, "Is…is it true? Is that woman really your…" her voice broke, "your mother?"

When he finally did bother to glance up at Éponine, she was startled by the lack of emotion on his face. His mouth was straight, and as he usually did, he gave off an air of indifference, as though the past few minutes had not even happened. He did not nod or shake his head; he only looked at Éponine as if he was waiting for her to leave.

"Don't you care?" she raised her voice, completely boggled by him, "Are you not happy?" He glared at her as soon as those words left her mouth, and her voice became smaller, "Not even… angry?"

"No," he said simply, but she knew it was not true. He was deeply troubled by the whole thing and she knew it, and it frustrated her to no end that he simply refused to show even a hint of emotion.

"But she's your mother-"

"No she is not," he cut her off harshly, "She is my blood relation. That is all."

"Don't you want to speak with her?" she pressed onward, unwilling to let the matter go, "It's been so long, and what are the odds that she'd just…show up here?"

Javert had thought the same exact thing, that it was absolutely preposterous she be here when there were dozens of other police stations in Paris she could've been taken, hundreds of other towns in France she could be. He found himself overwhelmed by how unlikely this whole thing really was, and so he did not answer her. He simply remained silent, and endeavored to forget the old woman's bothersome presence altogether. Javert saw her begin to open her mouth again then, and so, unwilling to listen to Éponine's ridiculous questions any more, he rose to stand, grabbing his coat off his chair and starting toward the door without a word.

"Wait!" she called after him, and to that he said nothing, instead only continuing to walk until he was outside his office and poised to leave the building, for he did not think he could withstand another minute remaining in his stuffy office while his mind was in such turmoil. However, before he could open the door to leave, her hand flew out and grabbed onto his shoulder, "_Wait_!" Clenching his jaw but discovering that he was too tired to reprimand her, all Javert did was turn and listen impatiently. She sucked in a breath, "What's going to happen to her?"

"If she confesses, she will be charged as an accomplice to attempted robbery," he told her tersely, "And she will be sentenced."

Éponine wrinkled her eyebrows, "But you have to speak to her, don't you see-"

"You know nothing of this matter," he spat before turning and walking away, "Do not proffer your counsel on it."

* * *

Javert patrolled the streets for the rest of that day, and Éponine wasn't sure if it was because he was scheduled to or because he simply did not want to be around the station. When he returned, he went straight to his quarters without bothering to speak to her and locked the door, remaining there in silence as he tried and failed to make sense of the arrival of the woman who called herself his mother. Éponine chose not to bother him again that day, for she knew if she continued to do so, he would shut himself off from her completely, and then there might be no chance at all that he would consent to speak with Mirela.

So if he would not speak with her, she decided, then she would.

Éponine waited until the dead of night when she knew all the gypsies would likely be asleep, and half an hour before midnight, she crept down from her room to the holding cells. Her eyes searched the crowd for Javert's mother unsuccessfully for a moment, but finally, she came upon the woman leaned up against a wall, sleeping, her dirty hair half-obscuring her face and her filthy shawl crumpling around her shoulders. Éponine tiptoed up to the bars and, as quietly as she could, knelt down beside them, then reached her hand through and shook the old woman gently.

"Madame?" she whispered so as to not awake the other occupants of the cell. When she did not stir, she hissed with more urgency, "Madame?"

At last, her eyes fluttered open with a soft gasp, and, instinctively, she moved away from the hand shaking her. She eyed Éponine suspiciously, and for the first time, Éponine could see clearly how similar Javert's eyes were to those of his mother, "Who are you?"

She tried to smile to reassure her, but it looked more like an uncomfortable grimace, "I'm Éponine. I'm a…" She was unsure of how to finish that sentence for a moment, but eventually settled on, "A friend of the Inspector."

The older woman looked confused, "The Inspector?"

"Javert," she blurted out quickly, cursing herself for not realizing that this woman knew almost nothing of his life. The words felt odd rolling off her tongue, "A friend of… Javert."

"You are his friend?" she repeated incredulously, the chuckled darkly, "Javert never had any friends as a boy. I did not think he would have many now." She sat up straight suddenly and inched over to Éponine, her eyes wide and hopeful, "Does he have a wife? Children?"

Sadly, Éponine shook her head, "No."

"So he has no one, then?" she croaked.

"No, madame," Éponine said again, though she liked to think he had her.

The woman grinned half-heartedly, "Do not call me 'madame,' darling. I've never been married, nor will I ever be."

"All right," she lowered her eyes, then asked, "If you don't mind me asking…what is your name?"

"Mirela," she told her. They fell victim to silence for a minute, until the old woman remarked sorrowfully, "I never thought I would see him again. Certainly not like this. I did not think I would recognize him if I ever saw him." She paused, "But I did. He is a man now. A policeman." She stopped once more and frowned, "I do not know him anymore. He is cold, isn't he? Heartless, perhaps. Is it because of me?" Mirela gave Éponine no time to reply, "It is, I suppose."

Finally, Éponine piped up, "He won't admit it, but I'd imagine he wants to know why."

"Why I left?" the old woman closed her eyes, "I was young, and foolish like only the young can be. I bore him while I was in prison, and I…" she trailed off with a sigh, "I will not deny that I did not want him. I was young. All I wanted was freedom. But when I was released I took him with me, back to my family, though of course they did not want us. Javert's father was not one of us, you see. He was a white man, a galley slave. His name was Thibault, and do you know, mademoiselle, for a time I believed myself to be quite in love with him. He did not feel the same, I think, and after he was released he never tried to find me. I don't believe he ever knew of Javert." She sighed, "When my family turned me away, I found another group of my people and traveled with them for a time. I made my living telling fortunes, and a few years after I was released from jail, I met a man named Etienne. He wasn't wealthy, but he was better-off than I, and I thought myself lucky that he'd care for me. He wasn't Roma and he wanted me all the same. But…"

"But…he didn't want Javert?" Éponine finished solemnly, and she nodded.

"He told me he wouldn't raise a half-gypsy bastard by another man," she spoke the words slowly, as though it pained her to do so, "And I did not want to lose him. So I-"

"You took him to an orphanage, on Christmas Eve," she interrupted gently, and when the woman looked up in surprise, she told her, "I know. He told me."

"You look at me as though you think I deserve to see my son again, mademoiselle. To be forgiven by him," she shook her head, "You are wrong. I never tried to find him, nor did I regret leaving him. I deserve the way he has treated me and nothing more."

Éponine cast her eyes downward, "I don't think that's true."

"He does not want to speak to me, does he?" Mirela seemed discouraged, though she knew she should've expected such a thing.

Éponine nodded solemnly, and when another minute passed in silence, she began to get to her feet, but was stopped when she felt the old woman's fragile grasp on her wrist.

"You seem to have his trust, mademoiselle," she said, "If you could get him to speak with me just for a short while… Surely he thinks it was because of him that I left, and I wish to tell him it was not." She took a breath, "It was because I was a fool."

Éponine nodded once more and then, without a word, took her leave from the space and headed back to her room for the night. For a moment, she found herself drawn towards Javert's door, but before she could climb the stairs up to it, she stopped herself and, with a sigh, forced her feet to lead her back to her quarters instead. Éponine knew that, perhaps, she did have Javert's trust, but she was almost certain that there was nothing in the world she could do to make him speak to Mirela. She had normally been able to pester him until he did what she wanted, yet somehow she knew that no amount of pestering or persuading would change his mind about this.

_You know nothing of this matter._

All of a sudden, she could hear Javert's words to her ring out clear and strong in her mind, and at that moment, she could not help but think that he was right.


	16. XVI

**Note: **This is just a quick note to address the frequency of updates: I update once a week because I believe it lets the story go along at a good, steady pace, and also because I write other things while I publish what I've already completed. Updating once a week lets me edit these chapters a bit as well as work on other things, and if I updated this two or three times a week I wouldn't be able to do that nearly as much. If there's ever a chapter I think is somewhat uneventful, I'm not opposed at all to doing two in a week, but the rest of the chapters I've got coming up for this are far from uneventful. ;)

* * *

**XVI**

* * *

Éponine did not, in the end, have to convince the Inspector to speak with Mirela after all.

Javert had known he would have to question her about her involvement in the attempted robbery sooner or later, but like a coward, he interrogated the other gypsy men and women first, obtaining whatever information he could from them so he would not have to speak with her for an extended period of time. The notion of talking to the woman at all filled him with both rage and supreme uneasiness, but he did not trust his subordinates to question these people properly and if he had to do it, then he would. After a while, he managed to convince himself that he did not know the old lady at all, that she was just another criminal for him to interrogate and subsequently place behind bars.

He did not know the woman, he told himself, and so when he took her from her cell and into the interrogation room, he did not bat an eye or look at her any more than was necessary. She also did not say a word, and it became clear to Javert that she appeared to be quite terrified of him, of the man he'd become. That was good, Javert reminded himself whenever he felt a hint of doubt encroaching upon his thoughts. That was how things ought to be. She should fear him like all criminals should fear the law, and it was of little matter that her blood flowed through his veins, that he saw his own eyes every time he happened to gaze upon her. So he brought her to the sparsely decorated room he always used for questioning, motioned for her to sit, and then took a seat across from her, folding his hands on the table and putting his shoulders back. Then, his actions sharp and precise, he removed the little book Éponine had given to him in which he took notes and prepared to document whatever she had to say.

It did not trouble him much that the first words he said to his mother in more than four decades were, "Your name."

Mirela frowned, thinking to herself how odd this situation was indeed: a son questioning his mother as though she was nothing more to him than a criminal, "My son…do you not remember it?"

"Your name," he repeated harshly, and he saw her almost flinch at the force with which he spoke those words.

"Mirela," she murmured, then added, "I do not have a surname."

"The others who participated in this attempted robbery have identified you as the one who distracted the owner of the home as they ran inside," he said, then demanded, "Is that true?" She remained silent, and so he told her flatly, "Do not bother denying it. If you assert that you did not, they will testify at your trial and identify you."

Hurt and confused by his seeming lack of emotion, Mirela gulped and raised her chin, her voice trembling, hoarse, "Yes. I did."

"Very well," he stood without warning, closed his notepad, and cleared his throat, "That will be all."

With all haste, the Inspector walked towards the door and had just begun to pull it open when the old woman discovered she could not bear to see him go, for she knew it was unlikely she might ever speak to him again and have the chance to say what she wanted to say, "Wait." He did not mind her, however, and only furthered his efforts to leave. "Javert, please…" her voice cracked, just as he placed one foot outside the door, "Please do not go, my son."

Upon hearing his name for the first time in years – only his name, without his title, without a hint of formality to it – he stopped, and he cursed himself for doing so, for falling prey to the whims of this woman. No, he decided finally. He did not have to speak with her. She was nothing to him; he owed her nothing, did not have to heed her in the way a child ought to heed their parents.

"Please," she sounded as though she yearned for nothing more than to cry, "Please, speak with me. Or if you do not want to speak…listen. It will only be a minute."

Against his will, Javert stopped at the door, his feet grounded to the floor, unable to move, and it made him furious when he realized that his legs would not obey his mind, that he could not leave this room. When he finally turned to look at her, he felt almost as though he was not in control of his own body. The world around him felt off, as though he was inhabiting someone else's life, and his limbs felt heavy, his entire body aching.

His tone was even but his tongue felt numb, his words spoken slowly, "Say what you must. I do not have all day."

Javert closed the door but did not move away from it, as he did not intend to give the old woman the impression that he would stay any longer than he had to. Mirela, seeing that he meant to listen to her, took a deep breath and murmured, "I spoke with your friend last night."

For a while, Javert couldn't understand whom she could possibly be speaking of, but then, he realized she must be referring to Éponine. He scowled at the girl's persistent meddling and demanded, "What did she say?"

"She said that you told her of that night…Christmas Eve," she managed a little grin, "It is good you have someone to confide in, my son. I don't remember you having friends as a boy."

"I have no need of them," he told her blankly, then asserted, "The mademoiselle is not my friend. She is my informant."

Mirela lowered her eyes, "Will you not sit, Javert?"

"No."

Again, there was a long, tense pause, and then she spoke once more, unwilling to give into the silence and let him leave, "That girl…your informant…she told me you have no wife. No children. Why?"

"I would not be a suitable husband or father," he bit out, his patience thinning and every muscle in his body urging him to leave, to get out of here and escape the presence of this woman.

"I do not believe that's true."

He clenched his jaw, "My lack of a family is not what you want to discuss." Unable to deny this, she nodded, and he said, "Speak plainly then."

"I wish you would not be so cold," she croaked, "Is it because of me you are like this?"

"Had I stayed with your kind I would have become a thief." Javert found himself genuinely sickened by the thought, "If anything, madame, you did me a favor."

"I have never been married, my son. Do not call me madame."

At the outright reminder that he was a bastard, his gaze became even colder, and he straightened his back, reaching for the door once again, "Farewell then, mademoiselle."

"Do not go, I beg you," she rose slowly to her feet and advanced towards him hesitantly, quite unsure how he would react to the increased proximity between them, "Hear what I have to say."

"I have heard what you've had to say," he bit out, his fury expressing itself before he could reign it in, "And it is of no importance."

He turned to go once more, and this time, she reached out and placed a frail hand on his shoulder. Upon feeling her touch, his posture became even more rigid, and he growled under his breath, but halted his efforts to leave once more. With a sigh, she opened her mouth to speak, "Do you remember why I left?" He said nothing, and she took his silence to mean that he did not, "I met a man, a man who would take care of me. But-" her voice became caught in her throat, and she choked on her words for a moment, "But he did not want you to come with me."

"There is no need for you to tell me these things," he spat, and her hand fell from his shoulder.

"All I want you to know, my son…" she closed her eyes, "is that it was through no fault of yours that I left." Slowly, he turned to look at her, and, feeling encouraged by his movements, she continued, "I know you will not forgive me; I don't deserve it, I know. All I ask is that you not be filled with such… hate, and anger." She dared, then, to take one of his rough, calloused hands in hers, turning it over and examining his palm intently. After a minute of confusion, he realized what she was doing and tugged his hand away as quickly as he could, dusting it off on the side of his trousers. Still, Mirela seemed to have gotten whatever information she had been seeking, and she looked up at him with a toothless grin, "I believe you will find love one day, my son. And I pray you will not push it away."

Without a sound, Javert nodded at her, but his mien did not soften in any way. The return of this woman had forced him to confront a great deal of things he would much rather simply ignore – his childhood, his rather undesirable heritage – and so, not willing to give her leave to continue speaking, he quit the room with all haste, ordering one of his officers on the other side of the door to take the old woman back to her cell. Once he was back in the safety of his office, he let out an angry breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and sunk down into his chair, yet he could not find the will to immerse himself in paperwork to forget the past few minutes. His mind, which he had known to be strictly one-track all his life, was overwhelmed with multitudes of thoughts that circled within his mind, like a swarm of insects that would not consent to leave him be. He could not focus, nor could he read the words on the papers below him. They all seemed a blur, bleeding together, indistinguishable from one another, and they made no sense.

She was right in only one thing: he would not forgive her. He'd thought that he had long ago managed to convince himself that the past was of little consequence to the present, that he did not care, and the fact that that was not entirely true made him furious. Javert felt almost ashamed that he'd not been able to face her and remain unaffected by what she'd had to say to him, ashamed that he'd been so weak when he knew it was imperative he feel nothing at all. But he did feel, despite his best efforts; he felt angry, confused, but he was not sad. He did not bother lamenting the fact that he'd never known the love of a father or mother. It was pointless to do so, he thought, and he had never wished it had been any other way. He knew himself to be honorable, just, moral. He was not any less of a good man or good officer because the woman Mirela had not cared enough to raise him; no, he imagined he was likely better off, for God only knew what kind of corrupt human being he could've become had he stayed with the gypsies.

Yet even though he knew that to be true, the idea of sending the old woman to jail bothered him, and he did not know why. He had never realized until now how great the curse of the gypsy blood running through his veins was. He could not bring himself to understand why the arrival of one single person had been able to trouble him so, and throw his entire world into disorder. Javert did not know what to do for the first time in years and it felt him nigh on unable to speak, so great was his frustration. He knew what he could do, of course, and what he shoulddo: he should ignore her, let her be sent off to prison and remain there for the rest of her days. Or he could be lenient, encourage the judge to pardon her because she was old and might not have many years longer to live, and would likely not make it long in prison. The former should have made the most sense to Javert, he knew, and he should've been able to make his decision in mere seconds, but he could not. He was torn between banishing her to almost certain death in jail and having mercy on her, and he knew not which was the lesser of two evils.

Suddenly, he felt the need to retreat – away from his office, away from work altogether. Most often, when he needed to get away, he would take refuge in his office, but that did not seem to be enough for him, now. He needed to be somewhere where no one would dare bother him, where none of his subordinates would dare tread. All at once, he rose to stand, grabbed a book he had been perusing off of one of the shelves, and made his way up to his room, where he remained as late afternoon faded into night.

Éponine, who had given him what she deemed to be a sufficient amount of space all day, tried to find Javert that evening, but had no luck and found that his office was deserted. She asked a few of the officers who were preparing to leave for the night, and from them learned that he was not supposed to be on patrol until tomorrow morning. If he had not gone out for a walk, the only place he could be, she thought, was in his room, and though it felt as if she was intruding upon some kind of sacred ground by doing so, she made her way up a short flight of stairs to his quarters. When she knocked on his door, she received no response, and so she turned the doorknob, only to find that it had not been locked. She frowned, but pushed it open nonetheless and stepped inside. Once she entered the room, she came upon Javert sitting by his unlit fireplace, reading a book in almost total darkness with only the moonlight from the window to help him see. He glanced up at her briefly before returning to his reading, and when he did not order her to leave, she took it as her cue to advance further toward him, until she was standing only feet from where he sat.

"What are you doing?" she asked softly.

She could see something was off about Javert; he looked tired, exhausted, his eyelids drooping and his shoulders slumped. When he spoke, his voice was substantially lower than it usually was, and he gave off an air of despondency she'd never seen from him before, "Reading."

All of a sudden, something occurred to her, and she folded her arms, "Did you talk to her?"

"I questioned her," he corrected Éponine pointedly, making sure she knew he had not done it of his own free will.

Exasperated with his pithy sentences and clipped tone, she pressed onward, "And?"

"She confessed."

"Was that all?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe you," she murmured, "What did she say?"

His eyes darkened, his mouth falling into a deep, ominous scowl that would deter most anyone, "Leave."

Éponine did not speak for a moment, but also did not comply with his wishes and take her leave from the room. After a minute had passed, she swallowed, "Will she be sent to jail?" He nodded, though he was not entirely sure of it, and she shook her head, incredulous, "But she…she'll die in jail. It's no place for the elderly."

He saw that she meant to move even closer to him, and wearily, he rested his chin on his hand, "Go." She stopped, then hesitantly began to creep toward him again, but was halted once more when he rasped, "Go, Éponine."

Éponine gaped at him for a moment. He had never called her by her first name without use of her honorific, and the fact that he had rendered her speechless. He looked angry, drained, but most of all, she thought he looked sorrowful. It was not as easily as seen in him as it may've been in others, yet if she looked deep into his eyes, she could see it clear as day, for the emotion bled through no matter how much he tried to suppress it. In that instant, she longed to reach out to him, to console him, but she hadn't the faintest notion how to do so, and knew that she would likely be pushed away if she tried. So she stayed right where she was, not moving an inch, until she finally turned and, regretfully, exited the room, closing the door softly behind her. Once it was shut, she leaned heavily against it, and the immense, inexplicable tightness she felt constricting her chest left her nearly unable to breathe.

A feeling of uselessness washed over her then, and, after heaving a sigh into the thickness of the night, she moved away from Javert's door and plodded down the stairs.

* * *

Three days passed.

All the gypsies not involved with the attempted robbery had been released two days before, and the only ones who remained in the station were the three men, two women, and Mirela. They were growing unsettled, and wondered what on earth the delay could be. They'd not been told anything about a trial and sentencing yet, and they became more and more anxious as the days went by without a word.

Finally, after pondering his options through and through for days, the Inspector made his way to the holding cells with four officers following close behind him. He stopped in front of them, then, and cleared his throat, "You are to be taken from here for trial and sentencing today. Afterwards, if you are convicted, you will likely be transported to La Force, where you will remain until you have served your sentence." Not sparing the gypsies even the briefest of glances, he nodded at his officers after unlocking the cell door and forcing it open. The men made to grab hold of the occupants of the cell, and the gypsies did not put up much of a fight, resigned to their fates as they were. When one of Javert's subordinates grabbed Mirela roughly and guided her out the door too, however, the Inspector stepped in front of him.

"I will take it from here, officer," he told the younger man, who nodded deferentially and stepped back. Javert waited until the other gypsies and his subordinates were gone, and only then did he look to the old woman, who was eyeing him through slightly narrowed, curious eyes.

"I have spoken to the judge. He has decided to pardon you," he said finally, then reached into his person and withdrew a bundle of francs, holding them out to her, "There is an inn on the end of the rue de l'Echaudé that should take you without asking questions. Stay there until you find a permanent residence." When she did not move, he commanded, "Be on your way."

Before making a move to leave, however, the old woman walked up to him and clasped her skinny, spindly fingers around his hand, "You have become a good man, Javert. Thank you." For a second, it seemed as though she meant to say more, but the words died on her tongue and remained unspoken. She gave his hands a last gentle squeeze in a tacit farewell, and then, before the Inspector could even blink, she had vanished, gone, almost as if she had never been there to begin with.

Javert remained there for a few minutes, unmoving, until he felt the presence of someone behind him and turned to see who it was. When he discovered it was Éponine, he did not blink, for it seemed she was everywhere nowadays, always watching him, always wherever he was. She was quite omnipresent, he thought, and he wondered briefly how she knew where to find him almost all the time.

"You let her go," she said with a smile, and he frowned at hearing the words spoken so plainly to him.

He shook his head, "The judge decided to be lenient because of her advanced age. It was not my doing."

She licked her lips and shifted her weight from one leg to another, but did not move closer to him, "You did the right thing, I think." Javert said nothing, though he could not disagree more. He was livid with himself for what he'd done, yet he thought, at the same time, that it would have perhaps troubled him more to ignore the old woman altogether. Unaware of the workings of his mind, however, she tilted her head to one side and smiled once again, "I believe you are a good man as well, Inspector."

* * *

One day passed, then two, then three and four, and all the while, Javert forbade all thoughts of Mirela from entering his mind. He spoke hardly at all, went about his business without a word, and it did not take Éponine to realize what was causing his mental turmoil. He'd not gotten much closure with his mother, and so she resolved to remedy that as best she could. Somehow, she managed to persuade him to take her to the inn in which the woman was to be staying, thinking that, if she was lucky, she might just be able to get him to speak with her. Being that he was in no mood to fight with her, Javert had not bothered to deny Éponine what she wanted, and instead only told her that he would take her there and then fetch her from the place once he'd finished his patrol that night. In fulfillment of his word, he left her at the cheap, rundown inn a few hours after sundown and embarked on his shift without saying a word to her, leaving the place behind as quickly as he could. Once she was there, she entered the inn and, after asking around about an old gypsy woman, managed to learn from a few of the people milling around the bar downstairs the general direction in which Mirela had gone. She found her room after knocking upon a few wrong doors, but once she'd located it, she knocked thrice upon her door, receiving permission to enter after a brief moment.

Once she opened the door and took in her surroundings, she found the room in a state of disorder. Mirela seemed to have gathered the few belongings she'd had from the gypsy encampment and brought them back to her room, but now, she was gathering them together once more and placing them in a small old trunk. Éponine only watched her for a second, boggled and unsure of what she could be doing, and then, it came to her, the realization hitting her harder than a blow to her stomach.

The old woman was leaving.

Though she feared she already knew, she hurried towards her with a frown and exclaimed, "What are you doing?"

When the old gypsy looked up at her, Éponine noticed that she looked quite exhausted, "I am leaving, mademoiselle."

"So soon?" she cried, "But…but you've only just gotten here!"

"My kind does not stay in one place for too long, darling," she croaked as she continued to collect her things, "It is time I be on my way."

Éponine could barely summon words to match her thoughts. Her voice higher than it normally was, she managed, "But…what about the Inspector? What about Javert?" The woman still did not look at her, and Éponine grasped her upper arm with gentle urgency, "What about your son?"

Finally, Mirela stopped what she was doing and moved her eyes up to look at Éponine with a sigh, "He does not wish to know me, sweetheart."

"That's not true!" she half-yelled, then lowered her voice, "He does. He will not say it but I believe he does. I beg you; do not go so soon. You've only just found him again…" A mixture of confusion and panic contorted her features, "Will you leave him so quickly?"

"There is no place for me in his life," she remarked, "And I know well he wants nothing to do with my people."

"So you won't try to reconcile with him? To…to know him once more?"

Mirela turned to Éponine, looking at her almost as though she pitied her for her innocence, "I had told you that I did not deserve his forgiveness, darling. Do you believe me now?"

Suddenly, she realized that the woman before her did not care for the Inspector – at least not enough to stay. Though she knew she shouldn't have been, she was dumbfounded, and her mouth began to move without articulating any proper words. Mirela looked remorseful, she thought, but the remorse was not nearly as strong as it should've been. Shouldn't any mother be heartbroken at the thought of leaving their child behind, knowing well that they would likely never see them again? Éponine couldn't understand. The woman had seemed so eager to speak with Javert, and now that she'd done so, was that all she wanted? To let him know that her leaving was not his fault, then only leave again? She couldn't understand it, and she felt a sudden surge of anger at Mirela. She'd appeared to be so warm, so gentle, but she was colder than ice on the inside, and did not care to know the son she'd left behind.

She had known the love of a mother and father once, but Javert never had, and it made her want to yell at this woman, to shake some sense into her. Before she could stop herself, she hissed lowly, "It is _your_ fault he is so cold."

The words stung Mirela, but did not appear to sway her at all. The old woman picked up the light trunk, started towards the door, and then stopped in front of Éponine, reaching into her pocket and withdrawing an old, torn bandana. She looked it over fondly, before holding it out to Éponine, "This was Javert's when he was a boy. I have kept it for years…but I believe it is time it be returned to him." Then, having said everything she wanted to say, Mirela hobbled towards the door, but stopped once more just as she pulled it open, a thought suddenly coming to her, "I do believe he cares for you, though I doubt he will ever admit it." Éponine frowned at that, and the old woman let out a shaky breath, "It was hard to see…yet when he spoke of you to me, he did not look the same. I could feel it, mademoiselle. There is a bond between you two. A greater one than I shall ever have with him, I think."

With that, she turned, and vanished in seconds out the door and down the hallway. Éponine did not bother trying to follow her and stop her from leaving when she so clearly did not want to stay. In truth, she did not know what to make of the woman: a woman who had kept her son's bandana for decades, yet left him only days after finding him once more; a woman who appeared repentant for what'd she'd done, but eager to continue on with her own life nonetheless. Her legs suddenly unsteady, she fell down into a sitting position on top of the bed, clutching the tattered cloth in her hands and looking at it for the first time. Though its colors had faded over the years, she could see that it had once had a grand, vibrant design drawn upon it, with countless swirls and other adornments, and she felt a pang of sorrow rip through her heart, a sense of mourning for Javert and for all the love he had had known in his youth. Was it simply the fate of some to remain unloved? Oh, she knew perhaps no one besides Gavroche and Azelma cared for her, but at least she had them, she thought, even if she had no one else. Javert had perhaps never had anyone at all, and the thought of one person remaining so completely and utterly isolated for so many years made her sick. He did not deserve that. No one deserved to know the misery of total solitude.

Éponine swallowed and hung her head, remaining in the room without saying a word or moving a muscle. Minutes ticked by, and she was not sure how many, yet still, she made no move to leave. Once an hour or so had passed, however, she heard heavy footsteps ascending the creaky old stairs in the inn and moving down the hallway, towards her door. She knew without a doubt it was Javert; she recognized the slow pace and heaviness with which he always walked, and she wondered for a moment how he'd managed to find her.

When he appeared at the doorway and stepped inside, though, such thoughts fled her mind, and she closed her eyes, muttering forlornly, "She is gone."

He seemed as if he hadn't heard her for a moment, and eventually demanded, "What?"

"She's gone," Éponine said again, "The room was empty when I got here."

Upon hearing those words, Javert became as still as a statue, though his mind was racing behind his stony mien. He should've expected it from her, yet still, it left him too irate to speak, and so he only clenched his jaw and took another step into the room, his eyes searching the dirty place for the old woman although he knew it was in vain. Javert was not certain why he felt almost betrayed by the whole ordeal, but he shoved the feeling aside quickly, stifling it before it could grow within him. Of course she would leave; the old bat had nothing for her in Paris, and she would likely return to the gypsies she'd been with before and set off for another town. Still, he told himself, he should have anticipated the fact that she would not stay – but for some reason, he hadn't, and he loathed himself because of it.

Sensing the warring thoughts in his mind, Éponine stood and walked towards him, extending the bandana so he could see it. For some reason, she did not have the heart to tell the Inspector of the conversation she'd had with Mirela shortly before she left, and a lie slid smoothly off of her tongue, "She left this here. It…was it yours?"

Slowly, he took the worn piece of fabric into his hands and, when it failed to call any distant memories back to his mind, he shook his head, "I cannot recall."

Still, the idea that it had once been his – an object that had been in his possession in his past life, in a time that no longer mattered – angered him, and he cast it to the ground crossly and watched without a sound as it fell, crumpling on the ground into a tiny heap. Éponine watched it tumble downward as well and furrowed her brow, musing sadly to herself how pathetic the little cloth looked.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as she walked closer to him, though she knew not what, exactly, she was sorry for. Before she could think twice about what she was doing, suddenly, all Éponine wanted to do was console him, to offer him the comfort that had been denied to him all his life, and so she moved closer to him until they were merely inches away from one another. Then, after taking a deep breath of courage into her lungs, she moved into Javert, wrapping her arms around him and attempting to embrace him to the best of her ability – which was a difficult feat, seeing as he was much larger than her.

Stunned as he was, it took him a moment to register the feeling of her arms around him, and it took him even longer to realize that she was trying to console him. He could not remember anyone ever doing such a thing for him before, and, tentatively, he encircled her with his arms as well, feeling extremely uneasy and tense as he did so. To Javert, it did not seem to be his place to do this, to embrace another person, yet for some reason he knew that not doing so wouldn't feel right, either. Éponine's breath caught in her throat as she felt his strong arms enveloping her small form, as she'd not thought he would even dream of returning the embrace. Nevertheless, she was very glad he did, and they remained like that for a few minutes in the stillness, without saying a word to one another.

Eventually, Éponine lifted her head to look at him, and the closeness of his body to hers made her heart pound frantically within her chest, so quickly that Javert could feel it through the layers of clothing between them. Her mouth slightly agape, she only stared at him for a while, her brown eyes glistening in the night, her breathing starting to pick up speed. He made no move to pull away, and he did not know why his body refused to move, to let her go. There was something in the air between them that neither could identify; it seemed to Éponine that there was a pull towards him, something urging them closer together, and she hadn't the will to fight it. All at once, she raised her face to his, standing slightly on her tiptoes to reach his mouth, and pressed a gentle kiss upon his lips. The kiss was chaste, light, more like a ghosting of her mouth across his, and not lustful in the least. It was almost like a polite kiss between friends, she thought, but it held more far significance than that, and was not a formality in any way. She did not know what it meant, what it made them to one another, but she did it nonetheless and could not say she felt regret. Javert's lips remained cold, unmoving, and he did not attempt to return the kiss at all, but before he could even blink, she'd parted her mouth from his and drawn back slightly from him, moving away as though she was afraid he would push her off first. She found that he was looking at her with suspicion and shock carved into his face, and it seemed to her that his mind could hardly comprehend what she'd just done. To reassure Javert, she gave him a small grin, but it fell from her lips when she discovered just how perturbed he looked.

A frown took the place of her grin with haste and she began to open her mouth to say something, but he spoke first, his voice low yet shockingly steady, "It is late. We should be on our way."

Disbelief melted onto her features. She couldn't understand how he had so easily recovered from the kiss and acted as though it had never happened, and she stammered softly, "But-"

Javert, abruptly feeling the need to get out of this room, to remove himself from her presence, made his way toward the door, and disappeared into the hallway within seconds. With a sinking feeling growing inside her stomach, she stayed where she was for a moment as she watched him go and realized, then, the magnitude of what she'd just done. After exhaling sharply, Éponine took one last look around and, after she did, she bent down and picked up the small scrap of cloth on the floor.

Without saying a word, she gulped, took a deep breath, and made to follow him back to the station.


	17. XVII

**XVII**

* * *

After that night, everything between them changed.

For so long, all Éponine had wanted was to know Javert, to uncover the mystery of a man that he was, to figure out what made him so cold and unfeeling. She realized that she'd done that relatively well. She'd learned his secrets, learned of his past, and gained his trust – all of which she had once been certain she might never do. Yes, she thought, that had been all she wanted from him, yet now that she knew those things and understood him well enough, she still was not satisfied. She found that she wanted more, and it scared her to realize that she did not want to be merely his friend, now. She wanted to be more; she wanted to know him – truly know him, know him in ways no one else ever had. She wanted to know how his touch felt, how his lips would feel capturing hers in a kiss, how his body would feel pressed up hard against hers. She thought of his strong arms, his determined eyes, the sharp, hard edges of his face, and a blush she could not control came to her cheeks. No, she decided finally, she did not only want to be his friend. She wanted to know him – all of him. She yearned to know his body, his arms, his legs, every part of him that she could touch. She hungered for the feeling of his lips upon hers once more, and this sudden desire for him sent her mind reeling.

Javert, on the other hand, could make no sense of her kiss. The sudden arrival and departure of Mirela had left him sufficiently confused, and now that Éponine had done this, he was even more so. His whole world had been thrust into disarray, his mind descending into a state of near chaos. His lips burned each time he contemplated the feeling of her mouth on his, and he loathed the feeling, loathed the idea that there was no way to take back what she'd done, what he'd let her do. He had not pushed her away and he wasn't sure that he had wanted to, but nonetheless, he knew the kiss was entirely improper. He had reprimanded her for becoming romantically involved with the fool Prevot, and if he allowed this thing – whatever it was, for he knew not to call it – between them to go further, he would be an utter hypocrite. She was his informant, and though it was not official, he was her superior. Anything beyond a professional relationship was out of the question, he told himself, and therefore, he would have to keep away from her as best he could, asking for her help on cases only when it was dire that he do so.

It would only be for the best, the Inspector thought to himself, yet still, he could not expunge the memories of that night from his mind. They were stuck in his brain like a cancer, growing, festering, refusing to allow him peace of mind. He'd not kissed a woman in decades, and in the time since then, he'd been able to convince himself that the allure of the female figure had no effect on him, that he could be close to a woman yet feel none of the urges that afflicted most other men and rendered them idiots, unable to speak or act with common sense. No, he was above them, above attraction to the opposite sex. He could not see the sense in courting or trying to catch the fancy of a woman, and he had no desire to do either thing when all they would do was distract him from his work.

Silently, he cursed Éponine for changing that, for forcing him to confront the possibility that he himself was fallible like all other men, and perfectly capable of being attracted to a woman. In truth, he'd not found himself aroused by her kiss, for it was too sudden and chaste, but that was not to say it had left him unaffected. Every time he closed his eyes he recalled it; every time he tried to immerse himself in his work he found his mind wandering, like a sheep desperately trying to pull away from its flock, no longer wanting to do what was right, what it was told to do. She had awakened a yearning within him unlike any he'd known in years, the yearning all humans had: to touch and be touched by another, to be close to another, to share in another's body heat.

But that was out of the question, Javert concluded, and to avoid all contact with Éponine, he only drew further back into himself, barely uttering a single complete sentence each day and making haste to leave her presence if ever he found himself near her. It didn't take her long to realize that he was pushing her away like he did to all others, and, while any other person might've given in and let themselves be pushed away, she refused to do so. She knew what she wanted – or who she wanted – and she would not let the very man she wanted get in the way of it.

So she strode up to his office one day, carrying herself with immense and unshakable confidence, and entered the room without bothering to knock. Annoyed that someone had dared to intrude without first alerting him of their presence, his head shot up to look at her, and he was slightly taken aback when he saw how furious she looked. Her arms were folded tightly against her chest, and she looked as though she was biting her cheeks and struggling to keep calm. He could see in her eyes that she meant to discuss the kiss that he'd banished to the back of his mind, and so he braced himself, preparing to drown out her words and wait for her to leave him in peace.

"I need to speak with you," she said after a moment's pause. His grasp on the pen in his hand grew tighter, but, much to her chagrin, he remained outwardly calm.

"About what?"

She faltered for a moment upon seeing that the Inspector appeared genuinely unaware of what she was about to say, then ground her teeth together, "You know _what_."

"If you are referring to what I imagine you are referring to," he said shortly as he looked back to his work, "then I see no reason we must discuss it."

She scowled, "Will you not even look at me?" He did not obey, and she balled her hands into fists, "Oh, have you any _idea _how frustrating a person you are?" She approached him and, since he was sitting and she was standing, she looked down upon him, her cheeks flushed angrily. He got to his feet as well as if trying to intimidate her and force her to leave him alone, but she would have none of it, "You do not want to speak with me because you're afraid of getting close to anyone." He opened his mouth to refute her claim, but she spoke first, "Don't try to tell me it's not true. Y-you want to push me away like you do to everyone else but I won't let you. You-"

She was silenced by a sudden knock on the door, and, startled, she stepped away from the Inspector, who cleared his throat and called out, "Come in."

One of Javert's officers stepped inside and, after nodding respectfully to him, began to speak, "Inspector, a young girl has been brought in. Would you like me to deal with her?"

Javert folded his arms, grateful for the man's interruption, "What was her crime?"

"Petty theft. Pickpocketing." He paused for a moment, then added, "She says her name is Azelma, though she neglected to give a surname."

Éponine nearly gasped and lunged forward a little, causing the Inspector to glance at her strangely out of the corner of his eye. She remained still for a moment, too shocked to speak, but eventually, she threw away all semblance of composure and rushed toward the door, "Oh God. Azelma."

Confused, Javert's officer stared at the Inspector for a moment as she hurried away, and only moved when Javert quit the room as well, following Éponine down to the holding cells. In search of her sister, Éponine ran faster than she could ever remember running. Her heart was pounding, her ears ringing, and she was entirely unaware of Javert's presence behind her. Her feet grinded to a halt once she reached the cells, and her eyes shot around frantically as she tried to locate her younger sister.

Out of nowhere, a small, shaky voice spoke up from behind her, "'Ponine?"

Éponine spun around and took two large steps towards the cell where her sister was being kept, then fell to her knees beside her and clutched the bars between them, "'Zelma. What've you done?"

Her sister did not answer and, upon seeing Javert approach Éponine and stand a few feet away from her, only eyed her suspiciously, "What are you doing here?"

She gulped and tried to steer their conversation away from such things, "I haven't seen you in so long-"

"'Ponine, what're you doing here?" she demanded more forcefully, "You disappeared after Pa got arrested. I-I haven't seen you in months. What…" she shook her head, "What's brought you _here_? What's going on?"

Éponine looked back at the Inspector, then, and asked him quietly, "Could you give us a moment, please?" He looked hesitant, and so she entreated, "Please, Inspector…she's my sister."

As soon as her words came to his ears, Javert realized the day he'd long feared had finally come. Being that Éponine had a criminal past, he had oft worried that someone she knew would show up in the station's cells, and he had also worried that such an occurrence might make her question just where her loyalties lied. He'd thought that perhaps they might one day encounter a friend of hers, but never had he imagined she would see one of her family incarcerated here, and now that she had, he could only wonder how Éponine would handle the situation. He felt a sense of foreboding settle over him, but he said nothing of it and only complied with her wishes, backing away and gesturing for his officer to do the same.

Once they were alone, she lowered her eyes and admitted, "I've been…working for the Inspector, 'Zelma."

"You're working for Javert?" she exclaimed, "Have you gone mad?" She seemed to realize something, and then hissed, "It's _your_ fault Pa got arrested, isn't it? You knew where he was and you told the police!"

"Pa left me behind to get arrested the night they kidnapped the Inspector. I told them what they wanted so they'd let me go," she explained, though her explanation did not seem to placate Azelma. She let out a breath, "I-I wasn't his informant… then."

"But you are now! You're working for the law! Is that how you got these nice clothes?" Azelma spat, "Gavroche told me a few weeks ago that he saw you in a new dress. Said that you told him you'd gotten money from some old woman. But you didn't, did you?" She narrowed her eyes, "You got it from Javert!"

"I did, all right?" she shot back, "I had nowhere to go and he offered me money to help him. Please, 'Zelm…" she sighed, "Don't be angry with me."

Too tired to fight, Azelma flattened her lips in a line and relented, "I'm not, I guess. I…I don't want to be mad at you, 'Ponine."

"What did you do to get in here?" she changed the subject swiftly.

Her sister's shoulders slumped, "I got caught pickpocketing. Since you and Pa have been gone, me and Ma've been on our own. She makes me do enough work for both of us now." A glint of hope sparkled in her eyes, and she reached through the bars to take Éponine's forearm in her grasp, "Please, 'Ponine…if there's something you can do to get me out of here, do it. I can't go to jail. You know what happens to people in prison, don't you?" Solemnly, Éponine nodded, and Azelma's grasp on her arm grew tighter, "Please, I-I don't want to go to prison. Don't let them send me there."

Éponine didn't know how to respond, "I don't know, Azelma-"

"Please, 'Ponine," she begged as tears began to wet her eyelids, "You're the last chance I've got."

"I…I'll try, all right? But I can't make any promises," she said with a gulp and, satisfied, Azelma drew back into the cell and curled herself into a little ball. With one last halfhearted smile at the girl, Éponine got to her feet and walked past the Inspector, attempting to appear as collected as she could while her mind was an emotional tempest. Though she had not consciously decided to go there, her feet led her back to Javert's office, and without a word, Javert returned along with her after ordering his subordinate to deal with the girl Azelma. After he'd closed the door and they were alone once more, she strode over to him, her breathing speeding up and her palms beginning to sweat.

"Inspector…you have to let her go," she managed to choke out, "She's my sister."

He closed his eyes and turned his back to her, suddenly angry that he'd let her get so close to him when it was clear she still had a connection with her past life, that she was not – and might never be – a completely loyal servant of the law. When he spoke, his tone was clipped, as though he were talking to a prisoner imploring him for freedom, "She cannot be released unless the charges are dropped."

"But there must be something you can do," she pressed, "She's not going to make it long in a prison. She's so thin and weak already. And don't you see?" she yanked on his arm, forcing him to, at the very least, spare her a glance, "That would be me if I hadn't come here."

Though he knew that was likely true, he was still far too angry with Éponine to be anything less than cold to her, "I cannot make an exception for her simply because she is your sister."

She sighed, seeming to deflate all at once as the air passed through her lips, "I…I know. I know that, but you must be able to do _something_-"

"There is nothing I can do," he cut her off roughly, his voice denoting all the fury and frustration he felt at that instant. The terrifying, booming quality to his voice that she'd not heard him use whilst speaking to her for months stole any other words she could've said right out of her mouth, and her jaw snapped shut. She felt small, foolish, like a child, and she hated the fact that he was able to make her feel such things. Unable to form words and left floundering like a fish out of water, she turned quickly and sauntered out of his office, her eyes watering with embarrassment and her cheeks flushed with anger. She was furious at him for so many reasons that she could hardly decipher just what she was really angry about. All she knew in the end was that she was livid at him; more livid than she'd ever been toward another human being, and she was grinding her teeth together so hard that her jaw ached.

She knew not what she was going to do, but she was quick to decide that she could not sit around and do nothing and watch her sister be carted off to jail without a word. She did not waste much time feeling torn between her loyalty to Azelma and her loyalty to Javert. Javert might have been her friend, might have given her a place to stay, but Azelma was her family, one of the few people left in the world she knew cared for her, and the idea of letting her be sent to prison wrenched Éponine's heart in her chest. No, she told herself, she cared for the Inspector, but he was not her family. He was cold, emotionless, prone to push everyone away, and, irate as she was, she did not feel the least bit guilty about leaving him behind. She returned to her room, and once she did, she began to form a plan in her mind. If she was going to free Azelma, she'd have to get the keys to her cell, which she knew the Inspector kept around his belt because he didn't trust any of his subordinates to keep track of them. She supposed she could try to sneak into his room after he'd gone to bed and take them, but she knew that, most nights, he locked his door, therefore rendering the keys inaccessible to her. She bit her lip, thinking to herself that perhaps getting ahold of his keys wouldn't be possible when he kept them so closely guarded at all times. Then, what felt like a bolt of lightning went through her, forcing her upright from where she sat on the bed.

She could seduce him, kiss him, distract him as best she could, then finally undo his belt to get his keys and break away. Would her kiss be enough to distract him? She hoped so, hoped that, if she acted as though she meant to sleep with him by removing his belt, he would perhaps be too sidetracked to realize what she was doing. She knew how lust could cloud a man's mind, but Javert was not like all other men, and as such, she could not be certain if it would work. She didn't know what she would do if it didn't; she had no back-up plan and so, she decided, she would simply have to make this one work. The idea of being so close to Javert was slightly unsettling, but even more unsettling was the thought that, to free Azelma, she'd have to deceive and betray him. She gulped, and she felt her certainty faltering for a moment. She'd grown so close to him; she'd valued him as her friend, wanted him to be more than her friend, yet now was she simply going to leave him and forget these past few months altogether? Forget how entranced she'd been by him, how she'd begun to desire him in a way that, perhaps, surpassed propriety? She exhaled sharply, and reminded herself sternly that that was precisely what she would have to do. If she freed Azelma and escaped with her, she knew she could never return to him, nor would he ever be willing to take her back.

Maybe it was for the best that they parted now, she thought, before their lives became so entangled that they could never be freed from one another. They were of totally different sorts; they were not compatible with one another, and maybe they would be fools to engage in a relationship that was anything more than completely platonic. Yes, she was doing what was right. There was no other way. She never should've come here and let herself care for such a coldblooded, cruel man. If she was smart, she would leave now and return to her life as it had been before. Perhaps she would be happier there, back when things were not so complicated, before she knew Javert and worked for the law.

Perhaps she would be happier, but a small voice somewhere deep inside her told her that she would not, and no matter how hard she tried, she could not help but wonder if it was right.

* * *

She let a few days pass in the hopes that Javert's anger toward her would cool somewhat, and, once she'd determined she'd given him enough time, she went to find him in his office late one afternoon. He was standing near his desk separating papers into what appeared to be two different piles, and looked up with narrowed eyes upon hearing someone enter his office without knocking. He had put on his coat, obscuring the keys from her line of sight, and looked as though he was preparing to leave. She knew she had to act fast, and so she did not allow herself to hesitate. Javert observed her warily as she advanced toward him, then stopped when they were only inches apart.

He looked inclined to move away from her, and so she moved closer still to him, placing a hand on one of the lapels on his coat. She took a deep breath, put on the calmest mien she could muster, and then began with a trembling voice, "I know…I-I know that you're angry with me. And I know I shouldn't have asked you to help Azelma. It wasn't my place." She moved nearer, pressing her body against his gently. The Inspector remained still before her and did not say a word, as he hadn't yet been able to determine just what she meant to do. Éponine swallowed, her heart beginning to beat faster with every inch the proximity between them grew, "And I…I…" she ran out of breath and had to recover for a moment, for she'd only just begun to realize the truth in her words, "I do not want to be only your friend."

Before his mind could even process what she'd said, she placed her hands on both sides of his face and pulled him down so that their lips collided. She did not attempt to keep the kiss chaste as she'd done before; Éponine knew what she had to do, and kissing him lightly and innocently would simply not be enough. So she tugged him closer to her, reaching up and burying her hand in the short, greying hair on his head. For a fleeting second, she forgot herself, forgot that she was kissing him for any reason other than because she wanted to. However, she remembered hastily not to get lost in the moment, though it was becoming increasingly hard not to as each second ticked by. She'd never felt so surrounded by one single person before, and to her, it seemed as though Javert was everywhere: in front of her, behind her, within her.

The only thought running through her mind was that she wanted more, more than this, but she settled for merely wrapping her arms around the back of his neck and mewling softly, her tongue pushing up against his closed mouth and requesting entry, which he gave within seconds. However overwhelmed Éponine was by the sensation of their mouths crashing together, Javert was equally so. He'd not been kissed with such intensity for so long that, to him, it felt as though this was the first time anyone had ever taken his lips so passionately, so ferociously. He knew very well that he should not be responding to her kiss, that he should be trying as hard as he could to push her away, but instead, he found himself only pulling her closer, yanking her body harder against his. He'd realized his desire for her far too suddenly for his mind to make any sense of it, and so he let the most primal of urges take over him, reducing him to somewhat of an animal.

With a low, rumbling groan from the back of his throat, he pushed her up against a wall with all the strength in his body. He could feel arousal burning between his legs, and though it angered him to think he could not ward off the feeling, it only served to encourage him to continue. She found herself surprised by how quickly he'd seemed to lose himself, but it was all the better for her, she thought, and when she lowered her hands and ran them across his belt, he thought nothing of it, nor did he attempt to stop her. When she finally managed to unclasp it, she deepened the kiss so as to keep his mind occupied on other things, biting down gently on his lower lip and allowing a moan to slip past her lips. She felt once more the yearning for him that'd plagued her in recent days, but she threw the feeling from her mind, instead continuing to circle her hands around the cool leather of his belt. At last, she located his keys, and she kissed him even more fervently when she began to slide them off his belt. She clutched the metal tightly in her hands to keep the keys from jingling and alerting him to what she was doing. Finally, by some miracle, she loosened them from his belt, and then placed them quietly in one of her pockets. She nearly breathed a sigh of relief when she found that Javert had not seemed to notice, and, cunningly, she fastened his belt once more, grazing her fingers briefly over his groin and eliciting a grunt from him. A heavy sense of sorrow overcame her, then, and she felt a lump form in her throat.

He did not know that she was saying goodbye, she thought to herself. He did not know that this kiss was her unspoken, final farewell.

At last, after nearly two minutes without stopping for air, she removed her lips from his. Once she did, Javert opened his eyes and looked her over as he struggled to steady his breathing. She did not look shocked or happy, he thought; she looked sorrowful, immensely saddened for some reason he couldn't fathom. His mind was hazy, his thoughts jumbled, but when he tried to pull her close to him once more, she wriggled out of his grasp.

"I-I'm sorry," she breathed, though she knew he did not understand what she was really sorry for. She bit her lip to keep from crying, "I'm sorry."

Her knees threatening to collapse beneath her, she turned and took her leave from the room as quickly as she could, leaving Javert in a stunned silence. Meanwhile, Éponine all but ran back to her room as fast as she could, grabbed her few belongings – which she'd managed to fit into an old, worn satchel – and then closed the door behind her. Then, afraid Javert would notice the absence of his keys as soon as she left and would give chase, she dashed down to the cell where Azelma was being held. Her younger sister was dozing on the ground with one hand behind her head, but was stirred from her slumber when she heard the turning of a key in a lock.

She looked up to see Éponine, and yawned, "'Ponine? W-what're you doing?"

"I'm getting you out of here," she explained quickly as she yanked open the heavy door. When Azelma did not move, she exclaimed, "Come on, hurry! We have to go!"

Her sister got to her feet as fast as she could, and as soon as she'd left the cell, Éponine threw the keys on the ground inside of it, then grabbed her sister's hand and took off running. They reached the back door of the station in hardly a minute, and Éponine did not hesitate to push it open and escape into the streets. After they were outside, however, she stopped for a second and dared to look back, her chest heaving as she caught her breath.

Overwhelmed, Azelma stood beside her and furrowed her brow, "What did you do?"

"I…I stole the Inspector's keys," she panted. Her mind was racing, trying and failing to realize the magnitude of what she'd just done. She snapped out of it after a moment, however, and grabbed Azelma's arm once more, "Come on…" she felt her eyes begin to brim with tears, but she shook her head and swallowed hard as she took in one last glimpse of the station, "We have to get out of here, 'Zelma."

* * *

It seemed to Javert that the world around him made little sense anymore.

He had not understood the situation the woman Mirela, nor had he understood Éponine's sudden onslaught of passion and even more sudden reluctance. He had always valued himself an intelligent man incapable of being confused by much; if something had happened, he could make sense of it, could decipher someone's reasons behind their actions, yet he could make no sense of what Éponine had done, why she'd been so eager to kiss him but been just as eager to escape his presence. In order to restore some semblance of logic in his world, he settled down into his chair and began to work, forcing himself to ignore the arousal she'd sparked within him. He remained like that for an hour or so until the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, but discovered in time that his mind was wandering beyond his control once more, and he could not focus properly. With a growl, he got to his feet, unable to bear remaining still for another minute. Deciding that a walk might perhaps be of some use in clearing his muddled thoughts, he left his office and closed the door, then reached for his keys to lock it behind him. When his hand met his side, however, he found that they were not where he usually put them, and so he reached for the other side of his belt, only to find that they were not there, either.

It all came back to him at once: the way Éponine had been moving her fingers around his belt, unfastening it, then refastening it only seconds later. He'd not thought anything of it at the time, too caught up in her – her scent, her kiss, her body – as he'd been, but now, he knew what she had done.

She'd taken his keys, and he feared he knew exactly why.

He swore under his breath and made all haste toward the station's cells. Once he was there, he saw the empty cell where Éponine's sister had been, and stood there for only a moment, looking to the open door and finding that his keys were lying on the ground. He clenched his jaw in fury as he stooped down to pick them up, then stalked down the hallway to Éponine's room and nearly ripped the door off of its hinges to get inside.

It was empty as well, and Javert realized, with horror, that Éponine was gone.


	18. XVIII

**XVIII**

* * *

He should have known.

Those were the words that ran through Javert's mind without relent as he surveyed Éponine's empty, abandoned room. He should have known not to place his trust in her, a girl from the streets, the daughter of a criminal. He should have known that this was what caring for people meant; it was nothing but misery, nothing but betrayal and anguish, and this was precisely why he seldom let people underneath his skin. He should have known she would do something like this eventually, and he should have known that instant he first laid eyes upon her that she was not to be trusted, that her loyalties did not, in the end, rest in him. He should have known it would end like this, but as he'd come to know her better he'd begun to think her above this, above delving into such crime, such treachery. With a growl, he slammed the door to her room closed and stalked up to his quarters. He was so livid that he was barely capable of coherent thought, but he also felt another feeling nagging at him, festering deep within his chest. No, he thought, he was not only angry, but also betrayed, hurt by her actions. He was overcome with emotion, unable to speak or make sense of the notion that she was gone, and when he opened his door and stepped into his quarters, he sank down onto his bed, clasping his hands together and bowing his head.

He knew some of his officers would inquire as to what had become of Éponine since she'd befriend a fair few of them, and he decided that he would simply tell them she was gone, for that was exactly what she was. She was gone, she would never return, and perhaps it was best that she not. They did not need to be given any details, and if they were wise, they would not ask any further questions. All at once, any trace of emotion fled his mind, and his facial expression became perfectly impassive, blank, indifferent, like it always was. Yes, he concluded, she was gone. She would not return, and there was no reason to lament her leaving. Doing so would be illogical, pointless, perhaps even idiotic, and he detested idiocy. He certainly could not bear seeing idiocy in himself, and as such, he resolved to jettison any and all memories of her from his mind.

Abruptly, he became very aware of the presence of the small notepad she'd given him for Christmas. Disgusted with it – as it was the only reminder of Éponine he had left – he tore it out of his pocket and stared at the thing with revulsion. Then, he opened it up to the first page, where she'd signed her name – _From your friend, Éponine_ – and he found he could no longer stomach the sight of her writing before his eyes. With a low growl, he ripped the page with her signature out, crumpled it up in his hand, and then tossed it into the unlit fireplace. Then, he stooped down and lit the logs aflame without even a second's hesitation. After it was burning, he took a seat and watched in silence as the paper crumpled and blackened as the fire spread over the logs. At first, part of the message remained, steadfastly refusing to burn, but after only a second, the young flame ate away the words 'your' and 'friend,' leaving only her name behind. Finally, the Inspector watched as the fire at last reached her name, and as it did, it seemed to him as though time had slowed. Gradually, it rendered the letter 'e' unreadable, then swept up the letters 'p', 'o' and 'n' in its fiery tendrils, too.

After the rest of her signature had become ashes and vanished into the blaze, Javert let out a long breath and closed his eyes.

* * *

Afraid that the police were on their tail, Éponine and Azelma hurried along the streets for a few hours, until they reached the outskirts of Paris and determined they weren't being followed. Once they were too exhausted to carry on any longer, they found a small inn and, with some of the money Éponine had saved up from her time as an informant, she rented a place for them to stay. Her eyelids drooping and her body aching from the run, Éponine led the way up a short, creaky flight of stairs to their room. The satchel containing her few, meager belongings felt like a lead weight on her shoulder, and the instant they entered the room, she threw it down on the old, dirty double bed, glad to be rid of the burden.

The inn was of a quality similar to the one their parents had owned years ago in Montfermeil. There seemed to be a constant revelry taking place downstairs, with drunks at every table, holding out their empty glasses to be filled. For every drunk man, there were two whores, sitting on their laps and trying to entice them upstairs. The room they were staying in was small and dusty, but relatively sanitary, and there were no roaches or mice to be seen. There was a little fireplace off near in the corner, next to which there was an old rocking chair that no longer looked able to support even the weight of a child. The bedclothes seemed clean enough, and there were no suspicious stains to be seen upon them, thankfully. Off in the corner, there was one little window that let in a bit of moonlight. For a moment, Éponine looked outside, transfixed by the stars above, and she thought of Javert, of the night they'd looked upon the skies on the bridge, and she felt sick.

"This is much better than sleeping on the street," Azelma smiled as she pulled off her shoes, bringing Éponine out of her state of contemplation, "How much did this place cost, 'Ponine?"

"I don't remember. A few francs a night, I think," she murmured, then let out a breath and reached into her satchel, withdrawing a tattered, green dress for her sister, "Here. You shouldn't be in those rags when I've got this."

Azelma grinned, her eyes twinkling in the darkness, "Oh, thanks! You made a lot of money working for Javert, didn't you?" Éponine began to say something, but the words perished on her tongue, and after a moment, her mouth fell closed. When she lowered her eyes and shifted uncomfortably, Azelma realized it was not a topic to be discussed, "I-I'm sorry. Never mind."

Éponine shook her head and walked over to light a small candle on one of the rickety bedside tables, then lit a fire in the hearth as well. Since the nights were still cold, she kept her dress on when she slid into bed and buried herself beneath the blankets. After warming her hands near the fireplace, Azelma did the same, and for a while, they lay together in silence, side by side, like they used to as children. Éponine could not bring her thoughts away from the Inspector all the while, and when her younger sister looked over at her, she seemed to be able to read her mind, "You're thinking of the Inspector, aren't you?"

She gaped at Azelma, surprised, "How did you know that?"

"I don't know," Azelma sighed, "Were you sleeping with him, 'Ponine?"

"No!" she cried rather loudly, then quieted herself, "No…no, I wasn't. But I…" she choked on her words for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was strained, "I kissed him to distract him… so I could steal the keys and get you out."

"I owe you, you know," Azelma told her after a minute, turning over to face Éponine and taking her hand, "If you hadn't gotten me out I would've gone to jail." They fell into silence for a moment, but her younger sister was having none of it and attempted to lighten the heavy mood between them, "I'm surprised he didn't arrest you for assault on an officer when you kissed him."

Éponine wasn't sure what to say to that, and once more, she tripped over words, "He…h-he wouldn't have. We were…" Finally, she gave up trying to explain to Azelma something she knew the girl could never understand, "It's hard to explain, 'Zelm."

"Do you care about him, 'Ponine?" Azelma asked after a minute, "I…I didn't think you could ever really care about anyone besides Monsieur Marius."

Éponine blinked at that. She'd not thought of Marius in a while, and she felt a pang of yearning for him at that moment, a yearning for him to come and comfort her, to wrap his arms around her, but she feared that even if he did – which was an impossibility even so – she would only be pretending it was Javert, and she could not help but marvel at how things had changed so drastically in only a matter of months, how her affections now belonged to Javert when they'd once been entirely devoted to Marius.

Her mouth suddenly dry, Éponine licked her lips, "I think I do. And I should like to believe that he cares for me as well. But…" she closed her eyes, "I can never go back there. I-it doesn't matter now."

"You shouldn't have left him to get me out if you didn't want to," Azelma remarked sadly.

Éponine reached over and squeezed her hand, "Don't be ridiculous. You're my family, 'Zelma. And he…" she bit her lip, forcing her eyes shut to keep from crying and betraying the façade of strength she'd struggled to keep up since she'd left, "He's not."

* * *

_Javert did not know where he was, which was highly unusual, for he almost always did. Yet now he was lost, and his entire body felt numb, fuzzy, and though he tried, he could not open his eyes to see what was going on around him. He thought for a moment that he was dead, but he could feel his chest rising and falling, and he knew, at that moment, that he must be very much alive. He was lying down – that much he knew – and his limbs were grounded to the floor, unable to be lifted or moved even an inch. He commanded his legs to stand, but they would do no such thing. His entire body seemed to be refusing to work properly, and he could not fathom why._

"_I'm sorry," a soft voice – the voice of Éponine – came out of the darkness, then, and floated to his ears. It held a heaviness in it that led him to believe she was on the verge of tears, but somehow, it also sounded firm, steady, as though she was completely calm, "I'm sorry."_

_Though he knew his eyes to be closed, he could see her, somehow, and she looked almost exactly like she had the night they'd first met, when her father's gang had kidnapped him. She was dressed in her rags: a torn, green chemise with a belt encircling her waist, and a faded skirt dragging on the ground behind her. Her skin, however, was spotless, devoid of any dirt, and her hair looked freshly-washed. Slowly, without a word, she approached him with steps lighter and more graceful than a ghost's, and he was only able to watch. He could not speak, could not move, and he could do nothing but think of her, looking on with inexplicable fascination with every move she made. He should be angry, he told himself, but yet he could summon no fury toward her when she looked so glad to see him, so radiant and resplendent. Instead, he wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch her, but he was paralyzed, held down by some unknown force that seemed intent on tormenting him. Eventually, he felt pressure on his legs, and finally, his eyes opened, and he looked up to see that she was straddling him, her eyes dancing happily and a little mischievous grin playing upon her lips._

_He wanted to touch her, but he still could not and he found himself growing frustrated, cursing whatever was keeping him from doing so. After a torturous moment of remaining motionless on top of him, at last, she leaned down and began to place kisses along his neck, occasionally daring to bite him gently and send little jolts of pain through his skin. He moaned as her kisses grew more and more fervent, and he felt himself beginning to grow hard beneath her. A desperate moan broke forth from his mouth despite his efforts to stifle it, and though she seemed to understand what he wanted, she refused to give it to him, instead only continuing to place kisses along his collarbone teasingly. Her hips were moving ever so gently against his, forcing his arousal to even greater heights, and he thought that he might go mad if another minute passed without him being able to get atop Éponine and take her._

_After what seemed like an hour of being unable to move, Javert finally took control of his arms and wrapped them around Éponine, pulling her as close as he could to his chest. His head was spinning, his body burning, his mouth begging for her touch but not able to make a sound. He'd never felt so weak, so out of control of his own body, but when he yanked her closer to him, suddenly, he felt her growing lighter and lighter in his arms. Confused, he looked down, and saw that she was fading, her body growing lighter and lighter until it was no longer totally visible. She had become translucent, and she was vanishing fast – too fast. He tried to grab onto her, to hold her to him, but she was slipping from his grasp, and he found he could do nothing but watch helplessly as she disappeared, fading into the darkness – gone, almost as if she'd never even been there to begin with. He felt a sort of panic shoot through him, and all at once, his arousal vanished as well. _

"_I'm sorry," he heard her voice again, but this time it sounded distant, as if she was a thousand miles away from him, so far out of reach that he could never hope to be close to her again. The echo reverberated around the darkness, and it began to sound like there were dozens of her speaking at once, chanting over and over, "I'm sorry." _

_Once more, his limbs lost the ability to move, and once more, his eyes fell closed and would not consent to open. He was trapped, unable to move a muscle or call out to her. All he could do was listen to her apology over and over again, until he thought he had gone insane. _

"_I'm sorry," she cried, and the darkness grew darker, creeping over his limbs and eating them away until he was one with the shadows, and his body was nothing._

"_I'm sorry," she cried again, and then, before he could think any more, the blackness overcame him._

Javert's eyes flew open, but he did not sit upright in bed or even move for that matter, too shocked and confused by the whole ordeal as he was. It did not take him long to realize that it had all been merely a dream, but that did not mean he was any less affected by it, by her kiss, her touch, her body on top of his. He'd had a dream, he realized with heart-stopping terror, but not merely a dream. A nightmare.

He, who had not dreamt in years, had dreamt of her – of Éponine.

He found that his body was coated in sweat, and he was breathing harder than he would've been had he just run five miles. The hardness between his legs was gone – gone, along with her, with her kiss, and though he was somewhat relieved it had not persisted, its absence only served to boggle him further. He found it hard to believe that it had not been real, and for a moment, he wondered if he was losing his mind, when every touch had seemed so utterly realistic, so convincing. Had he gone mad? Had she caused him to do so? Oh, what had become of him? His thoughts were coming in pieces, and he could scarcely make sense of the lot of them. He could hear her words in his head – I'm sorry, I'm sorry – and it sounded to him as though she was right beside him, yet he knew he was alone in this dark, lonely room, and the other side of the bed was empty, cold. She had been so close, so real, but she was gone. She was gone, and he was alone, and the fact bothered him more at that moment then it ever had before. He took a deep breath to calm himself and turned onto his side, but his mind was still racing, his thoughts flying off uncontrollably in all directions.

And as he teetered on the brink between consciousness and unconsciousness that night, all he could do was marvel at the fact that he – who had not dreamt in years, who had slept thousands of hours yet never once let his mind escape him, who had long ago decided that dreaming was for children and for fools – had dreamt of her.

* * *

A week passed in misery for both Éponine and Javert.

Éponine dreamt of the Inspector as well, but every time she awoke, she couldn't remember what had happened, and it forced her into an even deeper state of depression; the thought that she knew she had dreamt of him but the dream had slipped from her grasp. She had never realized how much she valued his presence in her life until he was no longer there, and she hoped with everything that she was that he was not angry at her, hoped that, perhaps, he missed her as well. No, she told herself, he likely didn't. He probably hated her and would have her arrested should she ever have the tenacity to return, and the thought made her cringe. At the time, she'd done what she'd thought was right, but now, she was beginning to doubt herself more and more with each passing day. She loved Azelma – of course she did – but the pull she felt back to Javert felt stronger than the pull of gravity itself. She thought of him almost every waking minute, and Azelma could see that she was detaching herself from the world, growing quieter, smiling less. Their circumstances were not the cause of her unshakable sorrow, Azelma knew, for they did not live uncomfortably; they were never cold, ate warm meals at the inn downstairs but did not venture outside much for fear the police would be looking for the two of them. The days were somewhat tolerable, but the nights were nigh on insufferable for Éponine, when she would awake in bed, her body soaked in a cold sweat, terrified by nightmares that she couldn't remember. In time, Azelma realized how unhappy she looked, and it troubled her to know that she was the cause of it, that she had been the one to tear Éponine away from her life with the Inspector.

One night, Azelma was awoken by a series of whimpers from the other side of the bed, where Éponine lay. The younger girl rubbed her eyes and sat up, then looked over to Éponine and noticed that she seemed to be in the midst of a rather distressing nightmare. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and her arms were thrashing about here and there, as though she was attempting to ward off some invisible assailant. Although the room was chilly, she could see sweat beading on her forehead and trickling down the sides of her face as well.

"Javert…" the man's name escaped her lips hoarsely, with desperation. Azelma had never heard the man's voice spoken in such a frantic, breathy manner, and so she began to shake her lightly, to bring her out of her dreams. Éponine did not open her eyes, however, and she seemed to become even more panicked when Azelma touched her, "I-I'm sorry, I'm so-"

"'Ponine!" her sister finally exclaimed, and Éponine's eyes opened all at once. She shot up in bed, her chest heaving, her eyes looking around wildly as if searching for Javert. When she did not find him, she cast her gaze downward and gulped. So far, she'd succeeded in not letting Azelma see her cry, but she could do so no longer, could not pretend anymore that she didn't care about everything she'd left behind when it was all that occupied her thoughts. Azelma scooted closer to her hesitantly and frowned, "What were you dreaming about? You…you were saying the Inspector's name."

A sob burst forth from her mouth, and she made no attempt to stifle it, "I-I don't remember. I can never remember!" She gnawed on her bottom lip, feeling like a foolish child for weeping over a dream, "I'm sorry…for waking you. I-"

"You should go back, 'Ponine," she told her suddenly. Shocked, Éponine looked to her, and her sister gave her a little grin, "You're so sad all the time. I don't want you to stay with me if you don't want to."

"'Zelma…" she sniffed, "I…I can't leave you here alone. What will you-"

"You know I'll be all right. I've always been all right before."

"I can't go back. You know that." She closed her eyes, "I broke the law. He…he'll have me arrested."

Her sister didn't look convinced, "I don't think he will. If he cares for you like you said…I don't think he will."

Éponine knew her sister spoke the truth, and so she did not bother disputing it. She moved closer to Azelma and placed both her hands on her shoulders, "You won't hate me if I go, will you?"

"No," she shook her head, "I could never hate you."

"Here," Éponine sprung out of the bed and opened up the satchel, grabbing all the clothing and most of the money she had and handing it to Azelma. Her voice was shaky, her entire body trembling at the thought of returning to Javert, "Take this. A-and if you ever need anything more, come find me. Don't pickpocket again, all right?" Another idea came to her, and she nearly flung the dress she was wearing off her body, then picked up her old rags and threw them on instead. Finally, she held out the other dress to Azelma, "Take this, too. If you don't need it, sell it. Get whatever you can."

"'Ponine, I-"

"Don't worry," she sent her a nervous smile, "I can always buy another one." She placed the satchel over her shoulders, then, and started towards the door, but before she opened it, she walked back to the bed and held out her arms to Azelma. Her sister embraced her tightly, sad to see her go but knowing that, in the end, it was better for her. Éponine placed a kiss on her forehead and sighed, "I love you, 'Zelm."

"Love you too, 'Ponine," she murmured, then watched without a sound as Éponine broke away and made her way to the door, pulling it open and walking out into the hallway.

Once she left the inn, Éponine found that, in addition to the unfriendly, frigid temperatures, it was pouring rain outside, and the instant she walked out into it, a violent shiver ran up her spine. But the weather was not enough to stop her; a little rain would not keep her from getting what she wanted on this night. Though walking more than half a dozen miles through Paris in the freezing rain would doubtlessly hinder anyone else, it would not do the same for her, and she set off down the street without hesitating. She clutched her arms to her chest as she felt her teeth begin to chatter audibly, but she kept onward, undaunted. Her heart was pounding, and she was only slightly aware of the world around her, of the cold that permeated her skin and sunk into her bones. She could not stop wondering how Javert would react to her return, and she prayed that he would not turn her away – not when she needed him so, when she was so certain that she could not go on without him.

On and on she walked, and once she reached the station, she gulped, her feet grinding to a halt before it. She felt fear shoot through her heart, but she walked up to it nonetheless, sneaking around the side of the building and picking the lock on the back door with ease. Once she was inside, she crept as quietly as she could down the hallways until she reached the door to Javert's room. There was no going back, she told herself – not now, not when she'd come so far. Without wasting another second doubting herself, she raised her hand and knocked thrice on the door. She heard footsteps walk around for a moment before they finally approached the door, and Éponine held her breath when it was pulled open.

When her eyes met Javert's for the first time in what felt like months, both of them froze, but the shock on the Inspector's face quickly gave way to sudden, uncontrollable anger, "What are you doing here?"

She didn't answer, and, after looking around outside to ensure no one had seen her enter, he tugged Éponine inside and closed the door behind her. She looked him over for a second, and realized it was the most disheveled she'd ever seen him look. He was clad in his nightclothes, but had thrown a blue robe over them upon hearing the knocking at his door, and there were dark bags hanging underneath his bloodshot eyes. Éponine thought to herself that it didn't appear he'd been getting any more sleep than she had. He looked her over as well, and cursed himself when he realized that the first thing he'd noticed about her was how the rain had saturated her chemise, leaving her, in essence, nearly topless before him, since the thin fabric was not successful in leaving anything to the imagination.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded again, his voice low and frightening, "I should have you arrested for what you've done." Éponine wanted to reply but could not find the words, and he growled, "You should not have come here, mademoiselle."

"Won't you call me Éponine?" she blurted out without thinking, "Why will you never call me by my name? I don't want to be called _mademoiselle_."

"Perhaps you are right," he shot back, "I should not speak with such respect to a criminal."

"I'm not a criminal!" she cried, surprising herself for a moment. She took a large step toward him and raised her chin defiantly, "I-I'm not a criminal and I'm not sorry for what I did."

"I believed I could trust you, and you betrayed my trust," he endeavored not to sound as disappointed as he felt, "Go on, girl. And do not come back. There is no place here for you anymore."

His last words knocked all the wind out of her for a second, but she recovered swiftly, "That's not_ true_."

"It was foolish of me to employ you in the first place. All informants like you are disloyal." She made to move closer to him, and he snarled, "Return to the streets where you belong."

"I don't belong there," she asserted. She inhaled slowly and walked towards him, until their chests were pressed up against one another, "I belong here… with you."

She angled her head so she could pull him in for a kiss, but he pushed her away and sneered, "If you plan on distracting me so you can steal from me again, you will have no luck." She placed a hand on his shoulder once more, and he only brushed her off, then grabbed hold of her forearm and took a step toward the door, "Be gone with you!"

"_No_!" she shrieked and tore her wrist out of his grip, then pointed an accusing finger at him, "You do not want me to go! You need me."

He almost scoffed, "Do not delude yourself into thinking such things. I do not need you-"

"Yes you do!" her breathing was ragged, her eyes wild, her voice wobbling and breaking on every other word, "You've always tried to make sure that I don't think I've been useful to you – but I have! I know I have! You may try to convince me that I'm replaceable but I'm not! And you…" she moved so that her face was only inches from his, her features contorted with anger. She grabbed him roughly by the front of his nightclothes, seething with rage, her tongue out of control, "_You need me_."

Javert could no longer bring himself to deny it. She was right. She had always been right. He needed her like he'd never needed anyone else, and so, within seconds, he had ensnared one of his large hands in her damp hair and seized her lips with his roughly. Yes, he thought, he needed her – not just to be his informant, but to be with him, to be at his side – and he would no longer refuse to admit it to himself. He could no longer keep himself from her. Shocked, she squeaked into his mouth when he captured her lips and instinctively tensed, but relaxed after a moment, melting into his kiss with a moan and throwing an arm around him. All she wanted was to be as close as she could to him as she could, to drink in all parts of him, and when he took her and pressed her up against the wall, she placed her other hand on his cheek to encourage him onward. Their kiss grew passionate as it had before, only this time, she had no intentions of stopping, and neither did he. She dared to move her lips to his neck, then, and he could not help but think how much like his dream this was, with her mouth running along his collarbone, licking, sucking, biting occasionally. It quickly became clear what she wanted, and, though he knew it was what he wanted as well, he forced them to a halt for a moment, in order to be sure they were not on the verge of doing something they would regret in the morning.

A throaty groan ripped itself from his mouth as he struggled to cling to the last few shreds of his self-control, "This is not proper, Éponine."

Upon hearing him use only her first name, she stopped kissing his neck and looked up at him, then admitted softly, "I-I'm not a virgin. Propriety doesn't matter.'

The fact both angered and comforted him: angered him to think another man had already had her, had already laid his hands on her, but also comforted him to think that he would not be the one to take her virginity, to spoil her for all other men like some kind of lecherous villain. Yet he did not think Éponine spoiled, ruined, even if she was no longer a virgin. He did not care who had had her before, for all he knew at that instant was that _he_ wanted to have her.

"If we are to go no further," he growled, "then we must stop now."

She shook her head and panted, "I don't want to stop."

Knowing she did not fully understand what he meant, he pulled her closer to him all at once, hissing, "If this continues, even if you ask – even if you _beg_ – I will not stop. Understand?"

"Yes," she nodded, then moved against him urgently and repeated, "I don't _want_ to stop."

When he recaptured her lips with his and picked her up, throwing her down on the bed and climbing on top of her, she knew that he'd let go of all semblance of restraint and given into his desires, and she was almost frightened to find out what kind of lover he would be. Javert had not lain with a woman in years, but that was not to say he'd forgotten how. As soon as their lips met once they lay on the bed, all logic deserted him, and all the reasons he had not to do this seemed to vanish into thin air. For a moment, he laid kisses on the cold, wet skin of her neck, delighting in the short airy gasps she was making and the way her hands were desperately grabbing onto his back, as though he would slip away if she let go.

He wasted no time in bringing his hands to her belt and undoing it, tossing the thing aside before returning his lips to hers. Then, only a second later, he moved his hands over her chemise and ripped it down the middle, then peeled the limp fabric from her skin and tossed it aside. She felt a sudden rush of fire between her legs when she realized that he was, quite literally, tearing the clothing right off of her. It did not upset her; no, if anything, she only wanted him to continue disrobing the both of them until there were no more troublesome barriers separating their flesh. He was so much of a man, she thought for a moment, and she yearned for him to touch every part of her body, every inch of her skin, every nook and cranny and area that was left previously undiscovered by Montparnasse, who had been a rather clumsy, careless lover. She fancied Javert the explorer and she the unknown territory, and she prayed he would have no inhibitions about claiming her for his own.

Breathing hard, he paused for a moment to take in the sight of her slick body glistening in the moonlight, looking upon her small, pert breasts and hardened nipples hungrily, as though he wanted nothing more than to devour her. He made short work of her skirt seconds later, tearing the thin cloth with ease and leaving her completely nude. Then, with himself still fully clothed, he began to explore her body with his mouth, moaning and grunting all the while. He had never felt such a strong desire to consume another human being, to make every part of them part of him as well, and it forced him into an even more animalistic state. He moved his mouth down from her neck to the valley between her breasts, where he stopped to take one of her breasts into his mouth. He moved his tongue over her erect nipple ravenously, and when he heard her moan shamelessly and writhe beneath him, he realized that she seemed to be enjoying herself just as much as he was. As his suckling sped up, she squirmed even more, and felt a flood of wetness between her legs, a desperation – a need – for him to be inside her. An endless series of cries and yelps left her mouth, and she placed a hand on his head, grabbing onto his short hair and guiding him over to her other breast, which he attended to with equal fervor.

Feeling himself become almost painfully hard, he groaned, and, after kissing her other breast for a moment, he stopped when he heard her moan, "Please. _Please_."

He did not have to ask to know what Éponine wanted, nor did he have to think twice to comply. With quick and precise actions, he undid the ties of his navy-blue robe, threw it to the ground, and then rid himself of his nightclothes too. At last, he was nude as well, and, just as he had done to her, she observed him in silence for a moment, the only sound in the room to be heard their frantic, heavy breathing. The muscles in his chest were not exceptionally well-defined, but they were firm, sturdy, as were the ones in his arms. Then, she looked to the area below his stomach, where his member rested, and she was glad for the darkness at that moment, for a blush came to her cheeks. It appeared that he was impressive not only in length but also in thickness, and she thought for a moment that he might perhaps even cause her pain. Javert, however, remained unaware of her trepidation and lowered his body on top of her, positioning himself between her legs, then paused for a moment, running the tip of his hardened length over her entrance, over her clit and all of her most sensitive areas. At that, Éponine inhaled sharply and bucked her hips, and he felt the moisture between her legs bloom anew.

He took that as a sign for him to continue, and finally, he entered her all at once, his passage made effortless by the juices her arousal had produced. His movement caused them both to cry out loudly, but he was not certain whether she had done so in pleasure or in pain, and so he stopped. It had been a mixture of both for her, in truth, but after he let her adjust to his size for a minute, she found that there was far more pleasure than pain and urged him to continue. When he thrust again, she cried out, throwing her head back on the pillows and grabbing onto the blankets. The sensation of almost complete fullness proved to be sheer ecstasy for her, and when he began to pump in and out of her steadily, she felt as though she was almost drowning in the pleasure, gasping for breath, moaning wantonly. He was not attempting at all to be gentle with her and for that she was grateful; she did not want to be treated as though she was some prized, precious object when she knew very well that she was not. She wanted him to take her, fuck her, and the pace at which he was sliding in and out of her was immensely satisfying – for the both of them, she imagined. And she was right; Javert was nearly in heaven at that moment, and he was certain that nothing in the world could make him stop when he was so far gone, so heavily entangled in the vines of lust. She was so tight, so warm, and as he observed her damp body in the moonlight – the way her wet hair fell back and forth across her face as she rocked her head from side to side, the choked, squealing sound she made every time he entered her – he thought for a moment that this was perhaps the most fulfilled he'd ever felt, the most purpose his life had ever had.

They'd not said much to each other since their lovemaking had begun, yet somehow, they could understand each other perfectly without a word. After a few minutes of thrusting as hard as he could into her, Javert felt himself approaching his climax, but resolved not to finish until she had done so herself. It would make him less of a man to explode inside her without giving her the pleasure she was due, he decided, and so he held out, exercising immense willpower as he did so. He did not have to hold out for long, however, and only a moment later, Éponine gave into the pleasure and came – hard – letting loose a high-pitched shriek as her inner walls shook and clenched around his member.

She threw her head back and raked her nails down his back, crying out his name as loudly as she could, "_Javert_!"

That finally pushed him over the precipice as well, and within seconds, he came inside her with a low, rumbling groan, his seed rushing out of him all at once. His head was reeling, and for a while, all he could see was white as he emptied the pent-up, aching rivers of himself into her. This was a pleasure he'd denied himself for so long, and at that moment, he understand why he had done so. It was bliss, ecstasy, and he had always vowed to keep away from such things, knowing well how they could render a person imbecilic in a matter of seconds. But, he decided as his climax ebbed and he withdrew his manhood from within her, he would do so no longer. He could not bear seeing Éponine go again, and he knew that if she was to stay, he would not be able to stop himself from doing this to her over and over again. Yet he did not want to stop himself, nor did he suppose he had the willpower to do so. He wanted to take her every night, every change he got, and he did not think he could keep his body away from hers now that they'd known each other carnally. So immense were the pleasures of the flesh – of Éponine's flesh – that Javert wondered if he could ever be the same, rigid, upright person he'd been all his life. The fire she'd sparked within him was vast, inextinguishable, but he adored its presence, just as he adored her presence.

His exhausted mind lost the ability to contemplate such things then, and he let his body fall down on the bed next to Éponine, who was still struggling to make her head stop reeling. Suddenly, she became aware of how cold she really was, and when he saw her begin to shiver, he reached down to the end of the bed and pulled the covers over the both of them. He did not, however, take her into his arms at first, but only a moment passed before she did it for him, lifting up one of his strong arms, nestling her face into the crook of his neck, and then wrapping it around her. They were both still panting, their chests heaving, and a few minutes passed in silence for them as they slowed their breathing. When she shifted in his arms and sighed happily, Javert thought for a moment that he had perhaps not been this content in years. His mind was totally at ease. His thoughts were not on the criminals or scum of the streets; instead, they were on Éponine and Éponine alone, and he let out a slow, calm breath, thinking that that was a welcome change indeed. Éponine moved her head down to his chest, resting her chin gently upon it, placing one hand across his chest and tracing patterns upon his skin absentmindedly.

Then, she looked up at him, her wide, brown eyes glowing through the thickness of the night, and said, "I do not suppose, Inspector…that we are just friends any longer."

The fact was glaringly obvious to Javert, but even so, he only closed his eyes and nodded, "No. I suppose you are right."

* * *

**Note: **This story has now been changed to M, so if you're ever looking for it and can't find it without mature stories enabled, that'll be why.


	19. XIX

**XIX**

* * *

Javert awoke before Éponine in the morning, and found she was dozing in almost the exact same position she'd been in when he'd fallen asleep, with one of her arms thrown across his chest and her head resting lightly on his shoulder. The memories of the previous night came back to him all at once, and he felt a sort of panic shoot through him at the thought that he'd let himself fall into such depravity when he'd long ago sworn it off. Yet all of a sudden, Javert realized that he felt no real guilt, no genuine remorse, and he did not wish for a moment that he could take back the events of last night.

He wasn't sorry for what they'd done, and as Éponine stirred in her sleep and grinned, he imagined that she wasn't, either.

Almost subconsciously, his hold on her tightened as he contemplated how pleasant of a feeling it was to awake with someone beside him, instead of rolling over to cold, empty bed sheets in the morning. Upon feeling the increased tightness around her, Éponine was drawn out of her slumber, and her eyes fluttered open to look up at him, a huge, lazy smile pulling at her lips.

"You're still here," she rasped, her voice scratchy from the lack of use overnight. She sighed contentedly, "I thought you wouldn't be." She felt as though she could weep with happiness to know that he had not left her, to know that he had stayed because he wanted to, "I'm glad you are." He said nothing to that, and she took a deep breath, taking in the scent of him – which, she thought, smelled faintly like leather and old books, but mostly like nothing. Then, a thought came to her, and she told him softly, "I recall, once… some of your officers speculating that you'd never lain with a woman. But now I know that they were _quite _incorrect."

Slightly amused, he looked over at her, "How?"

"Because…" she wriggled her eyebrows and chuckled, "I do not believe you would have been able to touch me in the way you did if you'd never done it before."

"Did you find it to your liking?" he asked only half-seriously, and she nodded with a laugh, then rolled over onto her back and yawned. She looked back to him after a moment, and she found her eyes drawn to a large, dark scar on his arm: the scar Montparnasse had given him on the night they'd first met. She reached over and ran one of her fingers down the length of it, looking upon the marking with a sort of fondness.

"Do you know, Inspector," she murmured as she leaned in closer to him, so that their lips were brushing against one another's, "that I am very glad I did not let you bleed to death?"

"As am I," he said only seconds before she closed the gap between them, deepening the kiss after only a moment and making her way on top of him once more. Javert could feel that the situation would rapidly spiral out of control if he did not stop Éponine, and though he would rather stay in bed with her for another hour or so, he knew that he had an early patrol this morning and was likely already late for it. He'd always prided himself in being the only punctual officer in a station full of men who were scarcely ever on time for anything, and it was with that in mind that he reluctantly nudged her off of him. She made a sound of disappointment as he pulled himself out of bed and got to his feet.

"Won't you stay a little longer?" she whined. He shook his head as he began to locate his clothing and dress himself.

"I fear my shift has already begun. I should not be any longer." He paused for a moment to look over at her unclothed form that was only half-obscured by the blankets, but quickly tore his eyes away from her before he became unable to look away, "You should get up as well. It is late."

"I fear, monsieur, that I do not have anything to wear," she told him with a smirk, sitting up and not bothering to cover her bare breasts with the blankets, "I gave my sister my only two dresses, and if I remember correctly…you destroyed my other clothes last night."

Javert looked to the floor and found that what she said was true: her green chemise was shredded and certainly not wearable anymore, and her skirt was torn jaggedly down the middle. It likely could be sewn, he thought, but he hadn't the skill or the materials required to do so. He clenched his jaw, thought for a moment, then picked up his discarded, dark blue robe and proffered it to her, "Wear this, but do not leave this room. I will find you something to wear later today."

Éponine sprang up from the bed and came to stand beside him, fully nude but unashamed of her state, then took the robe from him. As she draped it around herself, she tilted her head to one side, "Will it not look suspicious for you to enter a ladies' dress shop?"

"Perhaps," he conceded, but thought to himself that he was not overly concerned if someone did find it odd, for most people had enough sense not to question the things he did.

After tying the robe at her waist, she plopped back down on the bed and frowned, "What am I to do all day if I can't leave this room?" Javert glanced her way briefly as he buttoned his jacket but said nothing, and she sighed, burying her nose into the thick fabric and inhaling the scent of him once more. Though she knew not why, it put her at ease, and she smiled at the Inspector once more. Her heart had never felt so full; she'd never felt as though someone truly desired her, and it was quite nice, she thought, to know that she was wanted and valued by him – by a fine, moral, good man. Having dressed and tidied himself to his satisfaction, Javert began to make his way toward the door, but her voice sounded out to stop him, "If you insist on going…will you at least kiss me goodbye, first?"

He looked back at her then, and for a moment, that was all he did: he looked. Though her dark hair lay tangled and messy upon her shoulders and his robe clung loosely to her body, he thought she looked rather lovely, at that moment. She was laying in such a way that both of her legs were fully exposed, and the robe had parted slightly down the middle, prompting a sudden, forbidden rush of desire through Javert. He fought it off, however, and walked back over to the bed slowly, then leaned down and brought his lips to hers. As he'd expected, she made all haste to force her tongue into his mouth in an attempt to make him stay, but he would have none of it and refused to grant her entry, pulling away after only a moment and eliciting a dissatisfied groan from her.

"Fine. Go. I'll see you later," she grumbled, and he nodded, then left without another word.

His patrol was extremely unpleasant that morning, for the rain from the night before had not let up and the air remained just as cold and windy as it had been all week. His thoughts, however, were not on the weather, and he found that thinking of Éponine waiting for him up in his quarters, clothed only in his robe, was quite a nice distraction from the weather indeed. By the time his patrol had ended, the rain had let up somewhat, but he still remained chilled to the bone and eager to escape the disagreeable weather. He returned to his office where he removed his rain-soaked coat, then sat down to complete some of the paperwork he'd neglected to finish earlier in the week. He remained like that for an hour or so, and in time, he found that his focus was much improved. He felt utterly tranquil, his body relaxed, and he could not help but wonder for a moment if this sudden calmness was related to the events of the previous night.

After he'd been working for a while and was in a state of deep, unshakable concentration, he heard his office door creak open, and saw a small silhouette appear inside. When he looked up, he found Éponine standing before him, clutching his robe tightly around her body and biting her lip. For a moment, he stared at her, too stunned to remember how to form proper words, but eventually, he remembered himself, "What are you doing here?"

Éponine walked over to him hesitantly, then took a seat on the far side of his desk that was not occupied by any papers or books. He thought she looked somewhat flustered, and noticed she was squirming every other few seconds, "I know you told me to stay in your room, but-"

"Good God," he spat, "Did anyone see you come in here?"

She shook her head, "No, I made sure of it."

He shook his head, unsure whether he should be entertained by her or reprimand her. Eventually, he settled on demanding, "What do you need?"

"Well…I-I…" she swallowed, her cheeks reddening as she shifted once more, "I was thinking of you, of… last night, a-and now…"

"Now what?" he demanded, irritated and confused as to what could have possibly warranted her coming down here in nothing more than a robe.

"Now I-I'm finding it very hard to sit still," she confessed.

As the implications of what she'd said sunk in, the Inspector's eyes softened somewhat, and he set down his pen to take a look at her. Curious about the exact extent of her desire, he angled his chair towards where she sat and reached out one of his hands to brush her leg, then began to move it up to the area where her thighs met. Almost immediately, she tensed and sucked air into her lungs sharply, waiting with bated breath for him to reach her throbbing, hot core. When he finally pushed two of his fingers inside her, he was surprised to find that she was positively sopping wet, the moisture leaking down the insides of her thighs and coating his fingers completely. He felt himself stir within his trousers upon seeing how stimulated she'd gotten by simply thinking of him, and he growled before he could stop himself, driving his fingers further inside her.

She bit her lip to keep from moaning and reached out her hand to grab onto his arm, panting, "Please, I…I don't want your hand." She looked over at him pleadingly, "I want you."

Before he could think better of it, he moved his paperwork to the other side of his desk, leaving a large, empty space right in front of him. Then, he took her legs, urged to her sit so that they rested on both of his shoulders, and then eased her down into as much of a lying position as she could manage on the limited surface area. Éponine knew not what to make of it all, and so she only lied there, letting him arrange her how he wanted and not asking any questions. At last, he parted her robe and began to kiss her stomach, then gradually guided his mouth further and further down until it was hovering over her sex, his hot breath on the inside of her thigh prompting her to writhe and mewl quietly.

"What…" she choked out, as his lips went lower and lower, into forbidden territory, "W-what are you doing?"

She got her answer hardly a second later, when Javert, knowing that it would be the quickest way to give her the release she sought, brought his mouth to her opening at last and used his tongue to delve deep inside, relishing in the taste of her as he did. Éponine could hardly contain herself, and she had to bite down on her lip once more to keep from screaming because of the pleasure. When he began to lick and suck on her clit lightly, a gasp escaped her mouth, and she grabbed onto his hair, holding onto him desperately and trying to get him as close to her as he could possibly be. She'd heard of women pleasuring men with their mouths before, of course, but the one time she'd asked Montparnasse about men pleasuring women in the same way, he'd scoffed and told her she wouldn't enjoy such a thing.

Young and foolish as she'd been, she'd accepted his word as the truth, but now, with Javert's mouth sweeping over her most sensitive areas so quickly that it felt to her that he had not one but three tongues, she could not even begin to fathom just how wrong 'Parnasse had been. It felt amazing – so much so that she could hardly describe it – and the pleasure radiating out from her core was white-hot, smoldering, mind-numbing. With each passing second it became harder for her to hold in her cries, and occasionally, a gasp or soft whimper would burst out of her mouth before she could remember to repress it. She knew she had to keep quiet, but when she tugged Javert's head closer to her and felt his ministrations on her clit become ten times more vigorous, she moaned aloud and threw her head back. He did not stop to shush her, however, and felt himself becoming almost impossibly hard as he thought of the amount of pleasure she appeared to be experiencing on account of him. Every time she wriggled and gasped, he felt his member twitch within his trousers, but he refrained from taking her just yet, deciding that he'd wait until she'd finished and then sweep her up to his room once more. The paperwork on Javert's desk was left forgotten, all but abandoned, but he paid it no mind even though he knew it was long overdue and desperately needed to be done.

There were far more urgent matters at the moment, he mused to himself, and his work could wait.

Éponine had taken hold of his mind, stolen his thoughts away from anything else, and as long as she was nearby he knew he would not be able to focus properly on his work. He pushed his tongue deeper inside her then, withdrawing it and bringing it up to flick at her clit every few seconds, touching all the right places in her body almost effortlessly. Éponine knew she could not hold on much longer, so great was the inferno raging between her legs. Her body was aching to be allowed release, and if she did not give it what it wanted, she was sure the pleasure was going to suffocate her. She bit down on her lip, only seconds away from climaxing, prepared to let go, and then-

There was a knock at the door.

Javert ripped himself from her lower half all at once, and she whimpered in disapproval, rocking her head back and forth, unable to think or move because of the pleasure, "No…n-no, please, I'm-"

"Get under the desk," he ordered gruffly, lowering his voice so the person outside could not hear. When she did not move and only shook her head with what sounded like a sob, he took her arm and pulled her to a standing position. Éponine wobbled a bit on her feet, her ears ringing and her world spinning, but crawled underneath the desk nonetheless and curled up into a ball, knowing how humiliating it would be should the person outside see the two of them in such an indecent state. Satisfied that she was out of sight, he straightened his back, dabbed his mouth off with his handkerchief, moved his desk chair in so that his legs were fully obscuring the area where the disgruntled Éponine was hidden, and finally cleared his throat, "Enter."

Furious at being brought down from her mountain of pleasure so unceremoniously, she scowled and silently cursed whoever had barged into Javert's office. The Inspector, meanwhile, put on the most composed expression he could muster and watched with faint irritation as one of his subordinates – a young man by the name of Jehan Desjardins – stepped inside.

"What do you need, officer?" he demanded a bit too forcefully. The timid young man flinched slightly, but began to speak after a moment.

Javert, however, immediately stopped listening to him when he felt a curious sensation prickle the skin between his legs. Éponine, having decided to obtain retribution for being denied her climax, had begun laying long, hot kisses on his groin, and the moment he realized what she was doing, Javert froze. He had almost no control over how hard he was becoming because of her, and he clenched his fists and his jaw tightly, knowing that he could not let the young man before him know what was going on underneath his desk lest he face embarrassment unlike any he had ever known before. Desjardins continued to speak, unaware of Javert's struggle to keep silent, but the instant the Inspector felt Éponine unbuttoning his trousers and running her little hands up and down his length, he began to sweat profusely, and his office felt a hundred times stuffier than it usually did. In order to suppress his moans, he started to cough every time he felt pleasure surge through him, and after a moment, Desjardins stopped speaking and looked at him strangely.

"Are…are you all right, sir?"

"Yes," he coughed, grabbing hold of one of the corners of his desk so hard that his knuckles paled, "Yes I am fi-"

A strangled half-moan, half-cough escaped his mouth when he felt Éponine part her lips and take him into her mouth without warning, running her tongue along his hardness and taking immense pleasure in seeing how affected he was by her actions. Desperate to get her to stop, yet wanting nothing more than for her to continue, he attempted to use his legs to push her off of him, but had no luck doing so, and, in order to prove to him that she did not intend to stop, she began to suck harder, with more fervor. He squeezed his eyes shut and nearly moaned again when she took him further into her mouth, but forced himself to stop when he saw that Desjardins looked quite alarmed. Javert had never been in such a compromising position with one of his subordinates, and he cursed the boy in front of him for entering his office at such an inopportune moment.

"Inspector, sir…you do not look well," he frowned, "Shall I… fetch a doctor, perhaps?"

"No," he bit out, then lowered his voice and tried with all that he was to ignore the divine sensation of Éponine's mouth around him – a sensation that he'd not felt in as long as he could remember, "No…continue, officer."

"Well, a-as I was saying," the younger man began again, oblivious to the fact that Javert had no idea what he was talking about, "I believe Officer Dubois should receive strict disciplinary action for what he's done. It is entirely improper for an officer of the law to behave in such a manner."

"What…what has he done?" Javert managed to say somewhat steadily, but Éponine eradicated any such steadiness in his voice only seconds later as she began to bob her head up and down slowly, torturously, as though she wanted to savor the fact that simply pleasuring him with her mouth could make him so weak, so much like malleable clay in her hands. Once more, the Inspector growled, and he could feel the sweat on his forehead coming harder and faster. He knew he must look quite bizarre to Desjardins, and he could only pray that the boy was too daft to realize what was going on, what the source of his apparent distress really was.

Desjardins approached him cautiously and was quick to prove that his prayers were answered, "Sir, you really do not look well. I must insist-"

"I do not need a doctor," he spat as he ground his teeth together as hard as he could. No, he thought, he did not need a doctor. He had never needed a doctor less.

"Have you got a fever? A-are you warm?" his officer looked genuinely worried for his health, and Javert would've scoffed had he been able to.

"No. Leave. This can…" he grunted again, struggling to contain himself and exercising every scrap of willpower he had left in doing so, "This matter can wait until a later time."

The young man was getting dangerously close to Javert, "I don't think it can, Inspector. Here, I-I shall feel your forehead-"

"Go!" Javert finally lost control and roared. He could feel himself coming dangerously close to his climax and he knew that, if he came now, he would not be able to stop his moans and growls, would not be able to keep from grabbing Éponine's head and fisting a handful of her hair in his palm. If he let go, it would be beyond embarrassing for both him and Éponine, and so Javert glared at his officer when he did not move and hissed once more, "_Get out_!"

"Y-yes, sir! I-I'm sorry, sir!" the terrified Desjardins cried as he backed towards the door and quit the room as fast as he could, closing the door behind him and running off with all intentions of going and informing his colleagues that the Inspector was in quite a foul mood today and was not to be bothered.

Javert held his breath until the boy's footsteps were no longer audible, and only then did he push back his chair and place both his hands on Éponine's head, threading her hair through his fingers. He pulled her head down over him hard, without thinking to be gentle, and she squeaked in surprise but did not pull away. Éponine looked up at him then, her eyes wide, and a sense of power and authority flowed through her veins. She had never seen Javert appear so desperate, so out of control, and to think that her touch had done this to him made her want to grin. With another hoarse moan and a long, deep growl from the back of his throat, he came into her mouth all at once before he was able to consider the fact that she might find it unpleasant. His mind was numb, his thoughts scrambled, and all he could think of was the pleasure. It was greater than it had been the night before – greater than ever, he thought. It had hollowed him out and left him but a shell of a man, an animal. Quite unsure what to do and not wanting to make a mess, Éponine did not pull away when he exploded inside her mouth and, though it made her cringe slightly, she swallowed his finish, then pulled away once he was done, breathless. She thought that she might've been far more disgusted with the whole thing had it not shown her such a human, fragile side of him, and she thought, then, that she wouldn't mind doing it again, if it gave her such power over him, if it made him crumble in her hands once more. Once he had calmed himself and the ecstasy had subsided, he leaned his head back against his chair and took a deep breath. She climbed onto his lap and wrapped her arms around the back of his neck, letting her mouth hover over his.

"You scared that poor man out of his wits," she chuckled, "You ought to apologize to him later."

As he fought to catch his breath, he murmured, "You should not have done that. I could have lost my job had he seen what you were doing."

"They wouldn't kick the great Inspector Javert – the best officer of the law in Paris – off of the force," she told him with a laugh, "Your superior would be a fool to do such a thing." At that, he said nothing, and she laid a soft kiss upon his lips, the taste of him lingering on her tongue, "You're not really angry with me, are you?" Still not trusting his voice to be totally steady, he only shook his head, and then, without a word, she took his hand and guided it between her legs once more, where the thick humidity and desire persisted. She lowered her lips to his neck and whispered in his ear, "Care to finish what you started, monsieur?"

Javert did not have to be asked twice and, without saying a word, he picked her up with little difficulty. After checking to ensure no one was about in the hallway, he shifted her in his arms, drawing another laugh from Éponine, and carried her up to his quarters.


	20. XX

**Note: **I've recently reached 100 reviews on this story, which I'm really happy about, so here's an early update. The next chapter might be up a bit later than usual, on Monday or maybe Tuesday at the latest. I've tried to do regular updates from the start, but I've been really busy all this week and haven't had much time to edit these chapters to my satisfaction. Hopefully this will tide you over until then.

Thanks for your continued readership and support! It means a lot.

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**XX**

* * *

It was on the twentieth of May, in the year 1832, that Éponine Thénardier first learned of Jean Valjean.

Since Javert, not wanting to put Éponine in danger any longer, had determined that her days as his informant had come to an end, she was free to walk with him whenever he went on patrol or took strolls down the streets of Paris for leisure, as it no longer mattered too terribly much if she was found out. It was not as though she was at liberty to strut proudly down the streets at his side, however, and she often wore a cloak that concealed her head and most of her face and kept a slight distance from him. She did not mind that, really, and as long as she was near him, she was perfectly content.

It was early afternoon, and Éponine was accompanying Javert and a few of his other officers on a routine patrol through Saint-Michel, under the pretense that she was gathering information for him. The Inspector had been reluctant to let her come along since it was her home and she would almost certainly be recognized, but she'd insisted, for, even though she knew it might not be wise, she wanted to see how the place had changed during her months of absence. The walk had been rather uneventful from the start, but when they turned the corner from one street and onto another, they heard a commotion and saw what appeared to be an attempted robbery playing out in the square.

Javert and his officers rushed off to take care of whatever it was, and Éponine stayed back as she analyzed the situation. There was a tall man in a yellow coat that appeared to have been attacked by a few desperate beggars whilst giving alms, but she couldn't see his face, as he seemed quite unsettled by the presence of the police and was making an attempt to hide it. A few feet away from him stood a beautiful young lady, who Éponine supposed must be his daughter. She looked equally as terrified by the arrival of Javert, but every other few seconds, her eyes moved to look over at something – or someone. Curious as to what she was doing, Éponine followed her gaze after a moment, and she felt her jaw slacken with shock when her eyes fell upon Marius, who was watching the girl from a distance as though she was more fascinating than anything he'd ever seen before. Éponine had not seen him in months, but he still looked almost exactly the same as she remembered him, and it comforted her to know that he did not appear to have changed.

So many things were happening at once that Éponine struggled to make sense of them. The Inspector and his officers yanked the beggars off of the man in the yellow coat, who, for some reason, had persisted in concealing his face. As soon as Javert lined up the men who'd tried to steal from him and let his attention be diverted away from the victim of the attempted robbery, however, the man in the yellow coat grabbed the hand of the young lady and hurried away, disappearing into a dark alleyway without a word. Once Javert turned back to speak to him and found he was no longer there, he froze and narrowed his eyes.

"Where did that man go?" he asked one of the officers beside him.

"He ran off, sir, and took the young woman with him," the man replied, seeming to find the situation just as odd as Javert did.

A faint suspicion crossed Javert's mind, but he shook it away and murmured under his breath, "What reason had he to run?"

"I knew he was suspicious looking, Inspector," one of the beggars, desperate to be let go, piped up, "Pulled on his sleeve when I first saw him and saw he had chain scars all over his wrist."

This seemed to intrigue Javert even more, and after a moment, he waved his hand, dismissing the beggars since he knew that he could not arrest the lot of them without a victim to testify to what they'd tried to do. Éponine could see distant memories flashing behind his eyes, and she could only wonder what it was about that man that had caught the interest of Javert. However, she had no more time to look at the Inspector, for only a minute later, Marius took notice of her presence and hurried over to where she stood.

"'Ponine? Is it you?"

Upon looking into his eyes and hearing his voice for the first time in months, she felt her breath hitch in her throat, and she cursed it for doing so. She had Javert; she cared for Javert, but she thought for a moment that it only made sense that seeing the boy she'd once been so in love with would make her heart beat faster, make her cheeks flush with color. Wordlessly, she nodded, and he gave her a smile that, months ago, would have rendered her silly, giggly, like a little girl. It made her knees grow somewhat weak, but as she looked him over again and saw in his eyes that he was glad to see her because she was his friend – and only his friend – she felt her joy die down.

"Where have you been? No one's seen you around for months," he remarked, though it was clear his mind was on other matters.

"I've been…" she didn't feel entirely comfortable telling him of Javert, and so she lied instead, "Taken in by a nice bourgeois woman. She let me be her servant, gave me a place to sleep."

"Ah. Well, I'm glad to know you are doing better," he said honestly. They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence after that, a silence which neither really knew how to break since they'd not spoken in so long. As they wallowed awkwardly in the quiet, Éponine lamented for a brief moment the apparent loss of Marius's friendship, but found that it didn't bother her too terribly much now, though it might've crushed her before. After a moment, he leaned in close to her and asked, "Did you see that girl? The one who was with the man in the yellow coat?"

Éponine nodded. There was something familiar about her, though she couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was or attach her face to a specific memory, "Yes. I did. Why?"

"Can you find her for me? Find where she lives?" he asked all at once, his words choppy, as though he was trying to catch his breath. When she gave him a look of confusion and disbelief, he moved closer to her and took hold of her arm in an attempt to convince her, "Please, Éponine."

"What do you see in her?" she blurted out before thinking, "What makes her so…so special?"

"I beg of you, 'Ponine. Find her for me. I will give you anything you want."

When she saw him looking down at her eagerly, like a puppy begging for a bone, then pull a few coins from his pocket, she shook her head, "I don't want your money, monsieur."

"Then do it for me. For the friendship that we share."

_Do it for me_. The words had an effect on her that she knew well they should not. Yes, she would do it for him, and she loathed herself when she realized that she could not bear denying him this when he seemed to want it so.

She sighed, folded her arms, and finally relented, "Very well, monsieur. I shall find her."

He smiled, patted her on the arm fondly, and then turned to hurry away, clearly having more pressing matters – more pressing than her, anyway – to attend to, "Thank you, 'Ponine."

Éponine could not describe quite what she felt at that instant, as she watched him walk away and disappear into a crowd of people in the busy square. She felt almost disappointed he'd not been happier to see her after she'd been away for so long, but she knew that it only made sense, as he'd never cared for her in the way she'd once cared for him. Éponine didn't know why she had bothered to hope he would be more affected by her return, and she clenched her jaw, trying to banish the sorrow she felt from her mind. It was clear to her that, in a matter of moments, Marius had developed some connection to the girl with the man in the yellow coat, and though it bothered her, she was infinitely more bothered by the fact that she was almost certain she knew that girl from somewhere. Then, all at once, a memory was triggered in her mind, though she knew not what had done so. She remembered the girl Cosette from her childhood in Montfermeil; the young, blonde waif her parents had taken in after her mother had offered to pay them for her care. She recalled how cruel she and her parents had been to the girl, how wretched the poor thing had been, and suddenly, she realized that the young woman she'd seen only moments ago had been Cosette, the girl she'd known as a child. Éponine scarcely ever forgot a face, and she knew without a doubt it was true.

She mused for a second how much of an odd world this was that she should again cross paths with Cosette after so many years. She did not remember a great deal about the girl aside from the fact that she'd disappeared one night without warning, and her parents had never told her where she'd gone. Clearly, she had been taken somewhere rather nice, to be raised by someone who was kind and loving, who clothed her in fine dresses and never mistreated her as her parents had before. Though she'd been ugly and scrawny as a child, Éponine thought that the girl had become beautiful, almost radiantly so over the years. Her hair had been long, shiny, and her cheeks had a healthy pink color to them. Éponine found herself astounded by the whole thing, unsure what to make of it all, and very unsure how she would go about finding the girl for Marius.

She was brought out of her thoughts all at once when Javert walked back over to her, his hands clasped behind his back, and told her, "Come. We must return to the station." She nodded as they began to walk, and after a minute, he spoke up, "Who was that boy you were speaking with?"

"His name is Marius. Marius Pontmercy. He is…" she shook her head and swallowed, "He was my friend."

"Only your friend?" he asked as a wild sort of protectiveness shot through his veins, for he found himself wondering in the back of his mind if the young fool had been the one to claim Éponine's maidenhead.

Amused, she glanced sideways at him, "Yes. Though… I once wished for him to be more."

He stopped walking for a moment, but motioned for his officers to continue onward. Once they were a fair distance away and out of earshot, he uttered lowly, "You no longer wish for such a thing, I presume?"

She grinned at Javert, "No. I have no need to, anymore." Her answer satisfied him immensely, and they resumed their walk without a word for a few minutes, until they had turned onto another street and left Saint-Michel. Then, she gazed over at Javert and inquired, "Do you know that man? The one in the yellow coat?"

Javert clenched his jaw and shook his head, evading her eyes, "No."

"Yes you do," she pressed, "Who is he?"

"He is no one," Javert told her with finality in his voice, effectively ending the discussion for the time being, "He simply reminded me of someone."

Éponine held her tongue for the rest of the walk back to the station, deciding it was best not to ask him again in such a short span of time lest he grow angry with her. The rest of the day passed with haste, and Éponine joined Javert in his quarters after his shift had ended that evening. She scarcely ever used her old room anymore, as she enjoyed spending the nights with Javert far more than she enjoyed spending them alone, but did not move her belongings out of it for fear Javert's officers would grow suspicious if she all but moved in with him. Éponine had heard a few of the men around the station remarking that Javert seemed to be in much better spirits in recent days, though they all seemed quite perplexed as to what the cause was and did not appear to think it had anything to do with her.

After they'd supped together, Javert took a seat by the fireplace in the armchair and exhaled deeply. She'd noticed that he'd looked somewhat distressed ever since he'd stopped the attempted robbery, and she could sense that the man in the yellow coat had some significance to Javert. Determined to find out just what it was, she walked over to the chair where he sat after clearing the dinner dishes off of the table and knelt beside him.

She put on the most imploring look she could muster, widening her brown eyes and sewing her fingers in with his, "I don't believe that man is no one to you."

"I do not wish to speak of it, Éponine," he told her wearily.

She would not leave it at that, however, and refused to be dismissed so flippantly, "Please, tell me." She rested her chin upon his knee, "Don't keep secrets from me."

There were few people in the world that could make Javert bend to their will with the ease that he bent to hers at that moment. Javert knew there was no sense in refusing to tell her when she would almost certainly keep asking him about it until she got her answer, and he saw no reason why she could not know. After remaining silent for a while, the Inspector looked down at her and began, his voice deep, gravelly, "There was a man called Jean Valjean, who was serving his time in the Bagne of Toulon when I worked as a prison guard there. His crime was theft of a loaf of bread, for which he was sentenced to five years, but after several escape attempts he served nineteen. After he was released, he broke his parole, disappeared. Years later we met again, in the town of Montreuil-sur-Mer where he had been elected mayor." Javert nearly scoffed at that thought of a criminal being elected to such a high, respectable office, "I did not recognize him at first, but when I did and denounced him as a criminal, I was informed that the real Jean Valjean had been caught and was to be put on trial."

He stopped for a moment, and she murmured, "But…it was not him?"

"No," he spat, bitter still over the whole ordeal, "But Valjean went to the man's trial and revealed himself. I had been right." Javert stroked his chin with one hand, his eyes blackened with fury, "I found him at a hospital, at the deathbed of a prostitute whose child was being cared for by innkeepers in Montfermeil." At that, Éponine's eyes widened, and her breath caught in her throat. He was speaking of her parent's inn, of Cosette. "He asked for three days to fetch the child, who he had vowed to care for. I did not yield, but the old man managed to get away and take the child nevertheless." He reined his anger in as best he could, continuing in an even tone, "Once I'd gotten to the place, he and the child were gone. I nearly caught him again as he attempted to leave Paris. But he slipped through my fingers, and I have not seen him since." He exhaled sharply, "He may run, but I will find him. He cannot evade the hand of justice forever."

She swallowed, "Was…was the child's name Cosette? The child that he took away?"

His head snapped in her direction, "How do you know that?"

Abruptly, she remembered that night, the memories returning to her mind's eye with almost perfect clarity. She sat up straight, her eyes boring into his, "That was my parent's inn. Jean Valjean was the man who took Cosette away. And you…" she looked up at him, stunned, "Y-you were the policeman who came looking for her. I…I remember you."

* * *

_It had been three weeks before Christmas in Montfermeil near the outskirts of Paris, and eight-year old Éponine was skipping about happily in the cold evening air. The ground had been coated earlier in the day with a layer of thick, cottony snow, and she and a few other children were delighting in building sculptures out of it. She wore a thick coat, woolen stockings, a soft dress, a little blue hat, and had her hair lovingly done up by her mother into neat braids. Her beauty was the envy of the other little neighbor girls, and all the young boys watched her with fascination, thinking her the prettiest person they'd ever seen and wishing that they might know her better. She had been friendly to everyone, always smiling and laughing, feeling as though the whole world adored her. Éponine had often thought to herself how fortunate it was that she was not poor like Cosette, the young girl her mother and father had taken in and made their servant. _

_She had been so happy, so carefree, and she never would have suspected the misery that would befall her as the years went on._

_She had been playing a game of tag with a few of her friends and listening to the yells and screams from inside her parent's inn when suddenly, a foreign noise cut through the air and seemed to silence all else. She could see a horse galloping at full speed into the town, and upon it sat a frightening man with a glare that appeared colder than the icicles hanging from the awnings of nearby buildings. Éponine, who had been standing near the gateway to the town, stopped what she was doing and watched in stunned silence as the man rode up to her parent's inn._

_As soon as her mother and father stumbled out of the building, she could hear the man demand, "Where is the child Cosette?"_

_She frowned to herself, wondering why on earth someone like him – who she assumed was a policeman – would be looking for Cosette, a girl that was certainly of no consequence to anybody. She heard her parents say something in reply that she couldn't quite make out, but it clearly didn't please the man, and only a minute later, he urged his horse back in the direction from whence he'd came. As he prepared to ride out of town, however, he stopped at the gate upon seeing that his intended path was blocked by a young girl. As soon as she realized that she was in his way, Éponine hurried to the side and glanced up at him with wide, curious eyes. For a long moment she observed him, and thought to herself that she'd never seen a human being look so scary. His posture was flawless, upright, and his black bicorn hat was perched firmly on his head, the symbol of his authority. He carried himself with confidence, with pride, and in that instant, she was amazed by how strong and determined he looked. She expected him to command his horse to gallop off as quickly as he could as soon as she was out of the way, but he had stopped, and for a second he looked at Éponine as well, his ice-grey gaze cutting into her. Éponine thought he looked as though he knew everything about her, and it unnerved her slightly, for no one had ever looked at her with such intensity. She'd never seen anyone like him before, and though he terrified her, he intrigued her, too._

_Then, without a word, the man nodded at her and urged his horse to move onward out of town. Stunned and mystified, Éponine only watched in silence as he galloped off into the night, thinking to herself, for some reason, that she hoped she would see him again._

* * *

As recollections of that night returned to the both of them, Éponine gently made her way into his lap, placing one hand on the side of his face as he muttered, "You were the girl at the gate."

"Yes. You rode in on your horse… looking for Cosette. And you nodded at me before you rode away," she breathed, her chest tightening as she recalled her forgotten first encounter with him. He nodded as her lips drew closer to his until they were mere centimeters away, and then, she breathed, "I remember."

Abruptly, she seized his lips in a searing kiss and grabbed onto the back of his head with both her hands to pull him closer to her. Their tongues engaged in a fierce battle of sorts, and he moaned as he grabbed onto her hips and urged them to grind against his pelvis. She complied eagerly, rocking her hips against him hard and biting down on his lower lip, enjoying each time he moaned into her mouth. He felt himself growing hard very quickly, but, tired as he was by the day's events, he had not the will to pick her up and throw her roughly on the bed as he usually did. She was the one to pull him up from the chair and lead him toward the bed, her mouth only parting from his when it had to.

When her kisses became more and more frantic and the atmosphere between them grew heavier, Javert knew it was time to begin removing the troublesome barriers of their clothing, and he found that it took a great deal of self-control not to rip Éponine's newly-bought, red dress right off of her body and let it fall to the ground like an old rag. Although he usually disrobed her first, she began to undo the buttons of his jacket, and once that and his undershirt were gone and she had climbed on top of him, she brought her hands to his trousers, then stopped to caress his groin teasingly, drawing a grunt from him. His pants soon joined the rest of his clothing on the ground, and as she leaned down to kiss him once more, one of her hands crept down and took hold of his erect member, her fingers sliding around his hardness as she pretended to touch it with a sort of virginal curiosity.

He moaned as she ran her soft hand up and down his length, grasping and squeezing it lightly, and after a moment, he flipped their position so that he was on top, as he usually was. Miraculously, he managed to remove her dress without destroying it in the process, and her undergarments disappeared just as quickly. Once they were both naked, he urged her slowly up on her hands and knees, and as he did so, Éponine could feel how sluggishly he was moving, how exhausted he seemed. However, that would not stop him now, and after a minute, to ensure her pleasure would be as great as his, he moved his hand to her entrance and dipped a finger inside of her. When he felt the moisture that was already there become even greater and heard her hiss with desire, he removed his hand and positioned his manhood at her entrance, entering her only a moment later and not bothering with any more foreplay. Éponine thought to herself, then, that no matter how many nights she spent with him, no matter how many times he took her, it always felt as though it was the first time. It was never tiring, never boring, but when he thrust into her again, he tore her from her thoughts, and her mind became aware only of the pleasure. He was not being rough with her like he usually did; his thrusts were slow, gentle, and instead of sending overpowering surges of pleasure through her, it sent instead dull, calming little jolts of excitement. No one had ever made love to her so tenderly, and though it was not the same kind of mind-numbing lust from before, it was immensely pleasant, almost relaxing in a way.

Over time, his thrusts grew in frequency but remained just as gentle, and when Éponine felt her body tense and climax, she gasped for air as the pleasure shot out into every part of her body and forced her to arch her back. She did not collapse onto her elbows, however, and remained upright as she heard Javert finish as well with a soft groan, and felt his hot seed burst within her. His hands roamed her body aimlessly as he rode out his climax, and Éponine felt utterly surrounded by him once more. He was everywhere; his hands were all over her body, caressing her skin, his seed was inside her, claiming her body for his own, and she adored the feeling of having every part of him so close, his body at one with hers; she could barely fathom how she'd lived without it. He pulled out after a moment and lay down on the bed beside her, his eyelids drooping as he fought to stay awake. The mental turmoil he'd undergone upon seeing the man he was almost certain was Jean Valjean had made him more exhausted than he'd been in years, and his body longed desperately for sleep. Since he knew he could not remain awake for much longer, he reached over to where Éponine lay and brought her into his chest, where he held her firmly, loathe to ever let her go, when she was perhaps the only person for which he'd ever had genuine affection.

When he heard her sniffle and looked down to see that her eyes were glassy with tears, however, he frowned, "What is wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," she assured Javert as she looked up to him and gave him a shaky smile. He'd touched her as though she was gold, as though she was the most precious thing on earth, and though she'd thought before that she didn't want him to touch her in that manner, the way that he had brought her to tears, "It's just that…no one's ever touched me so gently, before."

Javert tightened his hold on her and fell into a deep slumber mere moments later, but sleep did not come nearly as easily to Éponine, for her mind came upon a terrible realization only seconds after she'd spoken.

She had agreed to help Marius find Cosette, and she realized that, in doing so, she would also be finding the man called Jean Valjean, Cosette's caregiver, the man Javert had been hunting, the man he'd chased across the years. What would she do if she found them? Would she turn the man in and rip Cosette away from Marius, betraying his trust and breaking her promise to him? Or perhaps even worse, would she have to keep the location of the man called Valjean a secret from Javert and betray him once more? She realized all of a sudden that she would again be torn between the loyalty she had to Javert and the loyalty she had to her past life, to her promise to Marius, and the thought made her sick with fear. She had only just discovered how much she cared for Javert in truth, and she was utterly terrified of something happening that would ruin her newfound happiness.

And she realized, then, that she had perhaps made a terrible mistake.


	21. XXI

**XXI**

* * *

Though it pained Éponine to do so, she did not tell Javert that she knew the man in the square had, without a doubt, been Jean Valjean, nor did she tell him of her promise to Marius to find the girl Cosette for him. For several days she did nothing, did not look for Cosette, did nothing but think over her options. She knew what she ought to do, perhaps, and that would be to find Cosette and oust Valjean's location to Javert, but for some reason, the idea of doing so disconcerted her. Though the memories were vague, she could recall the man's face briefly on that night almost a decade ago, when he had come and taken Cosette away, and it left her confused. His eyes had been warm and kind, and his features had seemed soft, gentle. He hadn't looked like a hardened, dangerous ex-convict who was a menace to society; he did not seem to be a villainous man at all, and she could not understand why the Inspector was so intent on seeing him placed behind bars. Her promise to Marius stuck in her mind as well, and she thought to herself that, if she did not find this Cosette for him, he may very well never find her himself, for she knew he was not at all adept at navigating the Parisian streets.

She had gotten herself into yet another impossible dilemma, Éponine thought, and she cursed herself for being so stupid.

However, three days after the incident in the square, Éponine made up her mind, though perhaps her decision was against her better judgment. She would not be betraying Javert if he never knew what she'd done, and it was not as though she would be doing anything terribly wrong, anyway. She would simply be finding Cosette for Marius and leaving the two of them to their own devices while she returned to her life with Javert. There was no way to be certain Cosette was still living with the man called Jean Valjean, really, and after a while, Éponine managed to convince herself that she was not, that she'd only been taken in by another man who bore striking resemblance to him. However, her attempts to lie to herself were most unconvincing, and she didn't begin to believe her story for a second. Still, she set off one afternoon, undaunted by the impossible task before her to find Cosette. In truth, she knew she did not have anywhere to start, and so she returned to the street in Saint-Michel where the man in the yellow coat and Cosette had handed out alms. As she'd suspected, they were not there, and she thought it likely that they might not return after what had happened the last time they'd been there. She wandered from vendor to vendor on the street and asked if they recalled a man in a yellow coat and a young woman accompanying him, but they knew nothing, and when she sought out the beggars who'd tried to steal from the man, they knew nothing, either.

Then, she tried a few nearby stores – a dress shop, a book store, a bakery, and a butcher's shop – yet still, no one she came across remembered them. The next few days passed in this manner, and Éponine searched in vain, becoming more and more discouraged as the days as went on. One day, after scouring the streets for any sign of them for hours and coming up with nothing, Éponine finally decided that this simply was not worth so much trouble. She could tell Javert was growing more and more suspicious day by day, since she would disappear for hours at a time most afternoons, and the last thing she wanted was for him to find out what she was doing. Her head heavy and her feet dragging, she chose to take a different route back to the station that day, and, as she passed the Luxembourg Gardens, she stopped to duck inside and stroll around, in the hopes that it would clear her mind.

Just as she took a seat on a bench and folded her arms with a deep sigh, she found her eyes drawn to a bright flash color off in the distance: yellow. She shot to her feet almost the instant she realized just what it was.

It was a coat. A yellow coat worn by a tall man, who stood with a beautiful young woman at his side.

She almost couldn't believe her good fortune, and, knowing this was surely some heaven-sent miracle, she made all haste to follow them as they left the place and returned to the streets. Since night was falling, she was able to hide quite well in the shadows as she walked behind them, and only when they came upon a house on the rue Plumet and disappeared inside did she dare to step out of the darkness and into the moonlight. After imprinting the address into her memory, she hurried away and returned to the Gorbeau House, only to find that Marius was not in his room. Frustrated, she considered the other places he could be, and eventually settled upon checking the Café Musain. She knew that he and his friends had often met there before, and so long as nothing had changed drastically during her absence, she knew it was the next most likely place he would be.

So she made her way there with haste, ascending the stairs to the second story but stopping for a moment in order to hear what his friends were discussing. She knew that his friends often spoke of politics and the like, and so when she heard them speaking of planning a revolt, she thought little of it, deeming it mere idle speculation and walking up the next few stairs to make herself visible to the men inside the room. Almost as soon as she appeared, Marius's eyes went to her, and he dismissed himself quickly, knowing well what her arrival meant and clearly thinking it more important than whatever his friends were speaking of.

As soon as they were outside, he took her hands in his, "You've found her?" Mutely, she nodded, and a huge grin broke out onto his face as she began to lead him in the direction of the house on rue Plumet, "Thank you, 'Ponine. I believe I owe you more than I can ever repay."

She slowed her pace for a moment, looked to him, and said, "You can thank me later, monsieur."

They walked along in silence for a while, until they reached the house and stopped outside the gate around the back. Marius approached the fence as though he was approaching holy ground, treading on the earth below his feet with the utmost reverence and looking upon the young woman within the garden as though he was looking at the face of the Virgin Mary herself. After a moment, she took notice of him as well, and Éponine watched from the shadows as she walked toward Marius cautiously, eyeing him with both shyness and curiosity.

When he reached through the gate and placed his hand upon Cosette's, Éponine felt a bittersweet kind of pang hit her chest, to know that the boy she'd once loved, the boy who had never, in truth, been hers, now belonged forever to this Cosette, bound by only one touch, one gaze. She could hear in his voice when he spoke how devoted he seemed to her already, and though she could not say she understood how he'd been drawn to her so quickly, she allowed herself a sad, wistful little grin. She knew, at that moment, that she and Marius' paths no longer ran side by side; now, that had diverged, with his going off in a direction completely opposite to the one she'd chosen. He had his Cosette and she had the Inspector, and though she was happy, she still could not help but wonder what could have been had she never came upon Javert the night her father's gang had captured him.

After a moment of silent contemplation, Éponine left the two of them and slowly made her back to the station, to Javert, to the path she'd chosen, to the life in which she knew she belonged. Once she stepped back inside the place, however, she came upon a peculiar sight: Javert was dressed in his uniform as though he meant to leave with the small group of officers he had assembled around him. Bewildered as to what he would be doing so late in the day, she walked up to him and pulled him aside gently.

"What are you doing?" she asked quietly, then lowered her voice, "Aren't you going to come to bed?"

He straightened his back, looking quite eager to end their discussion and be on his way, "I have received a promising lead on the whereabouts of Jean Valjean."

Her heart sank, and her stomach churned anxiously, "Where…where is it?"

"A house on the rue Plumet. A man matching the description of the victim of the attempted robbery was spotted returning there early yesterday morning by one of my men." He looked as though he could almost grin, and the air about him told her clearly how impatient he was to catch this man, "He has evaded me for years, but no longer." Then, after taking a breath, he quieted himself, leaned toward Éponine, and told her, "I will be to bed once I return."

Before she could even think to say another word, he turned and disappeared out into the street with his officers, and Éponine remained still, her heart pounding, her hands trembling. For some reason, she could not shake the feeling that the arrest of the man called Valjean would not be right, would not be justice even though Javert asserted that it was. She realized, then, what she had to do, and so, mere seconds after the Inspector left with his men, she sprinted out of the back door of the station, running as fast as her thin legs could carry her. The wind whipped her hair around her face and obstructed her vision, and the muscles in her legs burned furiously from being forced to move with such haste, but still, she kept onward, praying that she would not be too late to warn Cosette and Valjean of the impending danger.

She made it to the home with astounding speed, using shortcuts and sidestreets to reach it faster than Javert and his men could. Once was there, she dashed up to the gate as quickly as she could, and found that Marius was no longer there. Cosette, however, was sitting on the bench within the garden and staring off into space, a little smile perking her lips upward as thoughts drifted off to the boy who'd entered her world and changed everything within moments. When she took notice of the girl at the gate, however, she got up and walked toward her slowly, sensing the urgency about her.

"Mademoiselle…" Éponine paused for a moment to catch her breath, grabbing onto the gate to steady herself, "You are in danger. Y-you have to leave."

Cosette shook her head, "What do you mean?"

Éponine closed her eyes, and then told her quickly, "Tell your father Inspector Javert is coming for him. You've got no time to pack. You have to go now."

Cosette seemed to realize the gravity of what she'd just said, and her eyes flew open wide with terror. Almost immediately she turned and started toward the door to the house, but stopped after a moment and ran back up to Éponine, "You are the one who led Marius to me, are you not?" Éponine nodded, and she continued breathlessly, "Please, mademoiselle, tell him he can find me at Rue de l'Homme-Arme, no. 7. I beg you."

Slowly, Éponine nodded again, and Cosette gave her a grin that failed to reach her worried eyes, before she picked up her skirts and disappeared into the house. Éponine stayed where she was for a moment, frozen, terrified of what she'd just done and wondering what on earth had possessed her to do it. Javert had been hunting this man without yield for years, yet she had willfully thwarted him when he'd been so close to arresting him and getting what he wanted. She had betrayed him once more, and the idea that he perhaps might not forgive her this time petrified Éponine more than she could ever say. A few minutes passed, and then, she heard Cosette and the man assumed to be Jean Valjean leave the house with all haste, hurry off down the street, and summon a cab to take them out of sight, miraculously managing to vanish before the Inspector arrived. Éponine let out a breath all at once, but tensed hardly a minute later, when she heard the footsteps of Javert and his men approach the house. Quickly, she scurried around the corner of the gate and enveloped herself in the shadows as best she could, pressing herself against the dirty wall and praying that she would blend in well enough.

"This is the address, Dubois?" she heard Javert demand, his voice holding a note of eagerness to it.

"Yes, sir," another voice replied.

She watched in silent terror as Javert looked around, then eventually ordered, "Secure the premises. Guard every exit. I won't have him escaping this time."

His men nodded and dispersed, hurrying off in several directions to surround the house to the best of their ability, as they knew how important this arrest was to their superior. A few hurried toward the back gate, and Éponine held her breath, but relaxed somewhat when the men stopped a few feet away from her hiding spot and placed their hands on the gate, rattling it and trying in vain to pull it open.

"It's locked," one of them stated, then motioned for the others to follow him, "Come around the back."

However, Éponine's confidence that she would not be found proved to be short lived, for when the officers rounded the corner to where she was standing, their eyes went right to her, and their mouths went ajar for second, for it was not as though they did not recognize Javert's informant, the girl from the slums they'd seen often around the station. Éponine felt terror shoot through her, rendering her limbs immobile, her legs unable to run even though she beckoned them to do so, and for a moment all they did was look at her with surprise evident on their faces. When one of them snapped back to reality, reached out, and pulled her out of the shadows, however, she closed her eyes and murmured a prayer, bracing herself for the worst as they led her over to the front door just in time to see Javert come storming out, his eye burning with rage, his fists clenched so tightly that blood could no longer circulate in his fingers.

It was clear to Éponine he'd discovered Valjean was gone, and she couldn't remember ever seeing him so angry.

One of the officers holding her grabbed her arm none too gently and guided her over to the Inspector, then. Once Javert noticed her presence, he narrowed his eyes and stormed over to her, then looked to his officer for an explanation.

"Inspector," his officer said quietly, "We found her hiding in the shadows."

Éponine realized that she must have looked utterly guilty at that moment, for Javert took a menacing step forward and grabbed her shoulders, shaking her roughly, "What have you done?"

"I-I…" her throat was closing with up fear, leaving her unable to do anything but stammer dumbly, "I…"

He let loose a growl that froze the very marrow within her bones, grabbing her forearm roughly and yanking her forward, "Come with me." Then, briefly, he turned to his men and commanded, "Search the surrounding homes. Wake his neighbors. He cannot have gone far and I'll be damned if he slips away again!"

Without another word, Javert spun around and began to stalk away, his viselike grip on her arm relenting not even a bit as he dragged her back to the station with heavy, foreboding silence hanging in the air. His thoughts were a tempest within his mind, and he could make no sense of them, but he knew one thing and one thing only: Valjean had gotten away once again, and for some reason he could not even begin to fathom, Éponine had helped him do so. Éponine hurried alongside him, too afraid to open her mouth and rouse the sleeping bear that was his temper, as she suspected it was soon to awake anyway once they reached the station. As they drew closer to their destination, the dread in the pit of her stomach grew weightier and weightier until it felt as though she'd swallowed something impossibly heavy, like lead. Once they arrived, Javert tugged her harshly up into his quarters as though he was leading a criminal to a holding cell, then slammed the door behind them so loudly that the walls shook.

Then, he looked to her, his eyes colder than ice yet fierier than the flames of Hell itself, and spat, "What did you do?" When she did not respond and only trembled in fear, he charged towards her and took hold of her shoulders once more, confused and infuriated by her actions, "_What did you do_? How did you know where he was?"

"I-I…" she took a shaky breath and choked out, "I was on an errand for Marius. He wanted to find…the girl Cosette, and I-"

"You knew?" he accused, his anger faltering for a moment and giving way to disappointment, to hurt. However, his rage returned with all haste, and he barred his teeth at her, "You knew of his location and you did not tell me? No, not only did you not tell me," he hissed, "You warned him of my approach!" He let go of Éponine, appalled by her, "Are you an imbecile?"

"No," she asserted, "No, I-I did it because I don't believe that man should be arrested!"

"You are a fool to think such a thing," he shot back, "He is a criminal, a fugitive from the law-"

"He stole a loaf of bread, and yet he served more time than my father will! Is that not unfair?"

"You know as well as I that that was not the extent of his crimes. Breaking parole is no minor offence," he lowered his voice into a threatening snarl as he stormed toward her once more, "You know nothing of the law and it is not for you to decide who is imprisoned and who is not!"

"And is it for you to decide?" she retorted, her fear evaporating suddenly. She waved her arms about, gesticulating wildly, "You are completely unreasonable! He broke his parole nearly a decade ago and you're still so…so _intent_ on arresting him?"

"A thief is always a thief, even if their crimes are forgotten by the years."

"I was a thief once," she reminded him, her voice reaching a greater volume with each passing moment, "Am I one still?"

"You helped a convicted felon run from the law. You are a criminal just as much as he is," he sneered, his face contorting darkly, "I had thought you had learned your lesson, but it is clear you have not." His thoughts out of control and his common sense hindered by anger, he once more took her thin arm in his, and forced her toward the door, "Be gone with you, and this time do not dare to return."

"No!" she refused, wrestling out of his grip and moving away, "I'm not going anywhere."

"You have no choice," Javert reached for her again, but she ducked out of his way. Frustrated, he roared, "Go!"

"_No_!" she cried just as loudly as he had yelled at her, to show him that he could not force her to bend to his will. Suddenly fearless, she dipped both her hands into Javert's coat pockets then, withdrawing his handcuffs before he'd even realized what she was doing. Then, she moved sneakily behind him, grabbed his wrists, and cuffed them together. As soon as he felt the cool metal encircle his forearms, he roared once more in frustration, but, undaunted, she raised her face to his and bit out, "You are always in control – of everything! But no longer."

Taken aback at her boldness towards him – a boldness no one had ever shown in his presence – he did not fight Éponine when he felt her hands pushing him back with a force that was astounding for such a small person. She continued to shove him backwards until the backs of his legs collided with the bed and he fell down on top of it into a sitting position. Almost immediately, she crawled on top of him, straddling him and forcing his mouth against hers in a wild, sloppy kiss. It quickly became clear to Javert that she was not holding back even the tiniest bit, that she was pouring the deepest parts of herself into the kiss, and he would've been far more intrigued had he not been so livid with her. He struggled against his bindings though he knew it would do no good, and after a moment, he tore his mouth away from hers.

Breathing heavily and fighting off the arousal he felt burning deep within him, he ordered, "Take these damn handcuffs off of me."

She leaned down and captured his lips once more, but after a moment, she bit down hard on his lower lip and drew blood. He grunted in pain and watched in silent rage as she raised her chin at him, her eyes raging with the fires of defiance, "No. You can't tell me what to do, now."

It was true; she had absolutely no intentions of freeing him – at least not any time soon. She wanted him to know what it was like to be in chains, to be powerless, and the thought that she would be the one to do so ignited a fire between her legs. Yes, she thought, she had put him in chains like he had put so many others, and she intended to enjoy it for as long as she possibly could. Éponine didn't understand what had caused her to become so sadistic, so desperate to see him in pain, but when she tasted the blood on his lips, she grinned wildly, her eyes dancing. Javert licked his lips and tasted the metallic tang as well, then looked up at her, almost shocked that she had not been afraid to do such a thing to him. He thought, at that moment, as she hovered above him, having handcuffed and bitten him, that she was perhaps the only woman he'd ever met who was so daring. In his youth he had only ever been with two women, and neither of them had ever tried to dominate him; they had all simply allowed him to do the dominating, for they seemed to believe that, since he was the man, he ought to. Éponine, however, clearly thought no such thing, and abruptly, through all the hot fury coursing through his veins, he felt something like admiration bloom inside him.

She was not afraid of him, and Javert thought for a moment that she was perhaps braver than every one of his officers combined.

With nimble fingers, she moved her hands to his jacket, unbuttoned it quickly, and then moved it out of the way as best she could, as she could not remove his arms from it entirely without undoing his handcuffs. She nearly tore off his shirt, and once that was gone, she threw off her dress and undergarments and brought her lips to his exposed collarbone. Instead of kissing him, however, she took his skin into her mouth and half-bit, half-sucked on it, intent on marking him, on branding his flesh with her mouth. Her actions were hardly painless for Javert, and he hissed every other minute or so, but felt his manhood rising with desire and straining against the coarse fabric of his trousers nonetheless. Once she pulled her mouth away from a spot just below his neck and saw the bright red mark she'd left behind, she nearly moaned aloud in satisfaction. She hoped it would be large and unable to be hidden in the morning; she wanted the world to know what she'd done, how she had seized control over the great Inspector Javert.

She crawled off of his lap, then, and knelt down before him, tracing her lips down his chest, then dragging her nails down it as well, pressing them into his skin hard enough to draw blood and leave scratch marks behind. He groaned in pain, but the sound was silenced when he felt her unbutton his trousers and yank them down off of his legs impatiently, as though she could not wait to be rid of the troublesome things. Éponine looked up at him before continuing, and upon seeing her wide, brown eyes glowing in the darkness, Javert realized that he could not remain angry for much longer at her when she was awakening such a potent, overwhelming lust within him. He loathed himself for admitting it, but it was the truth, and the instant she brought her lips to his hardness and took him into her mouth, all his fury seemed to melt away onto the ground and disappear. She swirled her tongue around his length with a sort of expertise, as though she'd discovered just where to touch him and just what to do to make him lose control. And she had; he had lost control, and he could think of nothing but the feelings of pleasure and lust pounding through his body. His chest burned from where she'd scratched him, and he could see droplets of blood peeking up through his skin here and there. He was not, however, exceptionally aware of the pain, and infinitely more aware of the feeling of Éponine's mouth around his member, the feeling of her head bobbing up and down over him. Before he could stop himself, he bucked his hips, yearning to reach out and grab onto her hair, but knowing that, because of the chains, he could not. He could do nothing, and, much to Éponine's delight, he growled in frustration.

After a long minute, she stopped what she was doing and crawled up onto his lap once more, placing her hands on his chest and pushing him down roughly into a lying position on the bed. His chest was heaving, his mind spinning, and he was too far gone to be angry with her anymore. Deciding that she had him right where she wanted him, she eased herself slowly down on top of his erect member, nearly falling backward as she did so because of the pleasure that shot out from her core as he slid inside of her. Then, only a second later, she began to move her hips against his, moving back and forth, then in somewhat of a circle and feeling him as he hit all sides of her. She felt so full, so in control, so powerful, and she closed her eyes, throwing her head back, quickening her pace, and arching her back. All the while, Javert watched from below, staring at her round breasts, her thin waist, and her flat stomach hungrily as she rode him, wishing for all that he was that he could reach up and touch her. No one had ever dominated him before, in the way she had dared to. He had always been in control; he was always in control of everything, at all times, and though having that control stolen from him was irritating, he could not deny that it was immensely pleasurable as well, to know that Éponine was not a timid lover afraid to do such a thing and take control when she wanted to.

Feeling herself growing close to orgasm, Éponine ground her hips frantically against his, ensuring he was as deep inside her as he could be, filling every part of her. She heard him groan beneath her, his hips trying to buck upward with more frequency, and she knew that he was growing close to his own climax as well. Not wanting to allow him it just yet, she stopped moving on top of him though it pained her somewhat to do so, and when she felt him try to buck his hips upward once again and force her to continue, she smirked. He was sweating, groaning, his hands cuffed uselessly behind his back, and she would not deny that the sight of him in such a helpless state sent a rush of adrenaline through her.

"Éponine," his voice sounded choked, strained, as though it was difficult for him to speak. Being inside her yet not being able to move was worse than pain to him, and he growled, "Dammit, Éponine."

"What?" she breathed, just barely managing to steady her voice, "Tell me what you want."

"Éponine-" he began again, his voice low and dangerous.

She nearly laughed at him, but hadn't the strength, for she could feel herself growing closer and closer to the epitome of all pleasure, her body aching to be allowed release, "Ask me… a-ask me nicely."

"I will not _beg_," he bit out, gritting his teeth and willing his body not to betray him, though he knew he could not hold out for much longer. Éponine swirled her hips on his then, and his mind became overwhelmed by the sensation of her warm, tight core closing in around his length, enclosing him like a wet sheath. The pressure and friction he felt was unbearable, and when she began to ride him hard once more, he finally gave in and let his orgasm cut through him, pleasure shooting out into his body in all directions and ripping a furious moan from his throat. He could not contain himself, could not hold back any longer, and though he knew Éponine had not yet reached her own climax, he gave in and came nonetheless, not finding it in himself to care. Upon seeing him let go in such a way and knowing that it was because of her, she was pushed to her own climax as well, and as she rode out the waves of her orgasm on top of him, she felt more powerful, more in control than she ever had before. She had always let others control her, thinking that it was what was best, what was safe, and she would have never imagined the immense pleasure that came from dominating someone instead.

As their climaxes waned and faded away, Éponine look down at Javert with a grin, deciding to take pity on him and rid him off his uncomfortable bonds. She crawled off the bed, rummaging through the pockets of his trousers for a moment until she located the key. Then, she moved back up to the panting, sweaty mess of a man that was Javert, turned him over for a moment, and unlocked the handcuffs. Nearly the instant she did, however, he moved faster than a cat, forcing himself on top of her and ravaging her neck with harsh, biting kisses in the same way she'd done to him. Éponine moaned aloud, hoping that he would mark her skin as well, that they would both have brands from one another for all to see. Within seconds, he had pinned her wrists down and, without warning, entered her all at once, groaning loudly and increasing his pace nearly tenfold. His anger at failing to catch Valjean returned in full force, and the fact that she'd been the reason why he had failed to do so vaporized the last few bits of his self-control, and he plunged into her deeply, harder than he ever had before, not caring a bit if he caused her pain.

She was not in any pain, however, and her loud cries joined his until she was nearly screaming and he was letting out a series of constant roars. Because of the rapid pace, they reached their climaxes after only a minute, but Javert was not done with her yet, and did not leave her be for long. Instead he took her again, and again, and again, for he had entirely lost control of his body and could hardly think of anything besides the fact that he wanted her, and he would have her. He had let her have her fun with him, Javert decided, but now it was his turn, and he had no intentions of stopping. Likewise, she had no intentions of asking him to stop, either. Never before had she been taken so passionately, so roughly, but her mind was numb, and it was only after he withdrew from her for the last time, too exhausted to continue, that she realized how much pain he had actually caused her. She closed her eyes and hissed, trying to ignore the stinging ache that was creeping out from between her legs, and the moment she did, he was forced back into reality. As the red mist clouding his vision dissipated, Javert looked down, and he was horrified when he saw that there were small stains of blood on the sheets between her trembling thighs.

He had been so rough – so completely careless with her – that he had made her bleed, and he felt like a monster at that moment, lower and filthier than a mutt on the street. Exhaling, he fell back onto his knees, his limbs going limp from shock, and, after a moment, he turned away from her, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and sitting there as he fought to catch his breath. He felt nauseated at the thought that he had ravished her body as though she was some worthless whore in a brothel, and when he heard her wince in pain again, he lowered his head, not daring to look back at her and acknowledge what he had done. He had never cared for anyone in the way he cared for her, and he could hardly stand the idea that he had made her feel such pain simply because he had been too livid to control himself.

Though it hurt her to do so, Éponine crawled towards him slowly on the bed and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. He had hurt her, yes, and perhaps she ought to be angry with him, but she was not, for some reason, and she did not know why.

"I…I'm all right. It doesn't hurt that much," she whispered hoarsely after a long moment of silence, though they both knew her words were not true.

He looked to her, then, and she saw how ashamed and disgusted with himself he looked. He remained quiet for a moment, then rasped, "I should not have been so rough." He glanced over at her, and his eyes were wider than she'd ever seen them, holding more meaning and emotion than ever before, "Forgive me."

He looked away again, thinking himself unworthy to gaze upon her when he had treated her so. After a moment, however, she placed one hand on the side of his face and angled his head so he would look at her, creeping closer to him and letting out a deep breath, "I do…if you will forgive me as well." She bit her lip and felt tears begin to dampen her eyelids, "I…I-I've come to care for you very much, and…I'm so afraid of losing you, and I…"

Éponine drifted off when he took her into his arms and pulled her into his chest, enfolding her in his embrace without a second thought, for he knew, in that instant, that he would not dare refuse to forgive her when he was just as afraid of losing her as well, "You will not lose me. You are mine, and I am yours."

She grinned up at him sleepily, then buried her head into his chest and murmured, "And…I should it to be like that, always."


	22. XXII

**XXII**

* * *

As May drew to a close and ushered in June, Javert began to hear murmurings of revolution about.

Before, he'd brushed the idea off as though it was a pesky bug on his shoulder, but it had not gone away and had only grown stronger with each passing day. He knew the source of the troublesome idea came from a group of students who met often in the Café Musain, though he did not have many details and had to rely mostly on idle speculation. Should a revolt be planned to take place – and he had not yet determined the likelihood that it would, in fact, actually take place – he wanted to be kept well informed. So, like every officer of the law who found himself posed with a question he could not answer, he resolved to find out more. He sent one of his officers to listen in on one of their meetings under the pretense that he was a patron at the café, and the man reported back to him afterward, telling him that the group of would-be rebels had been informed of the death of General Lamarque, the last voice the poor had to speak for them in the government, and planned to rally the people on the day of his funeral, to fight for those who were unable to fight for themselves. Though Javert had initially deemed it insignificant, his officer seemed to think that the students were quite serious about their so-called revolution, and worried that they would get the people of Paris to join them and cause even more of a problem. His subordinate did not know exactly what they planned to do, but he related something about building a barricade to the Inspector and offered to go undercover there and do what he could to destroy them from the inside. Javert, however, shook his head, and told him such a thing was not necessary.

If someone was to go, then he would go himself, for he knew it would be better if this trivial spark of revolution was stamped out before it could become an uncontainable flame.

He went to his quarters that night with a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew what he planned to do would be dangerous, and though he was not afraid, he could not shake the foreboding feeling that hung over his head. Pushing such thoughts away, he plodded up the stairs to his room and found that Éponine was not yet there. In silence he went and set out dinner for himself, ate it, and then left a bit out for her once she returned. Then, he walked over to his fireplace, and had just knelt down to light a fire when he heard the door creak open, then looked up to see that Éponine had stepped inside. He was taken aback slightly when he saw that she looked rather upset, her brow creased and a small frown tugging at her lips. Unsure of what could be bothering her, Javert frowned as well, dusting off his knees and getting to his feet.

"What is the matter?" he asked cautiously, and she swallowed.

"Is…is it true?" she asked as she advanced toward him, "That there's going to be an uprising? And that you're going to go undercover?"

He exhaled slowly through his nose and cast his eyes down at the fire, "Where did you hear of this?"

"I overheard some of your officers talking," she murmured, then gulped, "It's true, isn't it?" Wordlessly, he nodded, and all the air was knocked out of her for a moment. She felt panic rip through her, and she reached out to take hold of his arm, "Don't go. Please, don't go."

"It is my duty to help put an end to this in whatever way I can," he answered calmly.

"But they…" she shook her head, "They are fighting for the people. For the poor. What they're doing is…is good-"

"What they are doing is traitorous," he corrected her, "And they must be stopped."

She did not bother to debate that matter anymore, and instead raised her voice to demand, "But can't you ask one of your officers to go? Why must you do it?"

"I will be serving my country, and serving the law. It is what I must do."

"But it will be dangerous, and…and what would happen if you were to be hurt? Or…" her voice became strained, and she felt tears begin to form in her eyes, "If you were to die?"

"I will not die," he told her confidently, and she shook her head.

"How can you be so sure? You cannot know when Death is going to come, and…" she bit down hard on her lip, struggling to keep the tears at bay, "And I do not know what I would do if I lost you."

Javert looked at her for a long moment, and all at once, an unfamiliar feeling swelled inside him. To know he was needed by Éponine was almost an entirely alien feeling for him – he, who had never been truly needed by anyone else before – and it made him draw her closer, placing a hand on her cheek and softening his voice, "I am going. I'll hear no more on the matter." He saw her open her mouth once more, but he silenced her with a sharp glare, then promised, "I told you before that you will not lose me, and I swear that you will not."

Éponine, however, refused to give in, "Can't you see? You don't have to go-"

"It is my duty." He let out a breath and told her firmly, "I must go, and that is final."

She raised her chin at him then, and told him without a second's hesitation, "Then I'm going with you."

Javert was caught off guard for a moment, but recovered with haste and hissed, "That is absurd. There is no need for you to be put in harm's way." He broke away from her and clenched his jaw, "You are no longer my informant for a reason, and that reason is to ensure that you are safe."

Éponine knew he was right, and, discouraged, her shoulders drooped. Once more she approached him, and she wrapped her arms around the back of his neck with a sigh, "I know you are trying to protect me. But I don't want to be protected." He angled his face down slightly, and she leaned her forehead against his, "Wherever you go, I go, too."

"It is no place for you, Éponine," he said firmly, and she closed her eyes.

She opened them after a minute and gave him a little, shaky grin, "My place is with you. It always has been, I think."

"Éponine-" he tried again, yet once more, she stopped him.

Éponine straightened her back and cleared her throat, her tone fierce, unassailable, "If you insist on going, I insist on going with you. And I…" she sighed, then repeated the very same words he'd said to her, "I'll hear no more on the matter." Javert, for some reason, could not refuse her, even though he knew very well he ought to. He intended to protest, but his words were stolen when she wrapped her arms around him and held on as tightly as she could, listening contentedly to the sound of his heartbeat and letting it lull her body closer to sleep.

Though he did not desire to ruin the moment between them, eventually, he spoke up, though his resistance was waning bit by bit, "I cannot let you go with me."

"Please, I don't want to fight," she said, her voice muffled by his chest, "I want you to hold me. I…I want to stay like this."

Javert knew he should put up a fight, knew he should make it clear to her that she was not to go with him and put herself in such dangerous circumstances, yet he could not, and he knew not why. He knew Éponine was frightened of losing him, and he thought, then, that he was perhaps just as frightened of losing her, frightened of being forced back into the state of total solitude he'd inhabited before she'd come along and brought him out of it. Yes, Javert knew he should fight, but suddenly, his eyelids felt heavy, and his entire body began to yearn for nothing more than to hold her in this silence without saying a word, without arguing or angering her. He knew that, if he did not speak of the matter anymore, she would take it as his tacit approval for her to come with him, and though he knew he did not want that, he hadn't the will to fight her when she was so intent on getting what she wanted, so unwilling to back down. After a while he relented, and gave his thoughts over to nothingness, to the feeling of Éponine held to his chest, the feeling of her thin arms around him. It was in that way that they remained as the night grew blacker and more sinister around the two of them, creeping into the room and, as the fire gradually died down, rendering their two bodies indistinguishable from one another in the darkness.

* * *

Morning came far quickly than either of them would've preferred, but neither Éponine nor Javert lingered long in bed and instead set about preparing for the day's events. The General's funeral was to take place late in the coming afternoon, and Javert knew that some kind of disguise would have to be found for Éponine, as she couldn't go to the barricades with it being obvious she was of the fairer sex. After scraping around the station for a while, he managed to find a dirty pair of trousers and an old brown coat for her, then gave her one of his shirts as well. For some reason, Éponine had a hat for herself to wear, but he asked no questions about it and instead began to prepare himself as well.

As he was slipping off his uniform and putting on a long, dark grey coat, he heard Éponine curse under her breath from across the room. He looked over at her, and saw that she seemed to be attempting to bind her breasts with a long piece of grey cloth so they would not be visible underneath her shirt, but had dropped the piece of fabric she was using and caused it to unravel halfway from around her. He stopped what he was doing and approached Éponine, taking the cloth in his hands and pulling it away from her grasp.

"Let me," he said lowly, and she nodded, then lifted up her arms so he could wrap it around her. Every so often, as he wound the cloth around her chest, his hand would brush against her breasts or caress her back, and she would shiver, but she felt no real desire, no lust or longing for his touch. She was being eaten alive by worry; she smelled danger, and wished with everything that she was that he would reconsider going. But, she thought regretfully, he was like her; when he wanted something, he did not stop until he had it, and she knew trying to convince him would be futile. Once he'd wrapped the coarse fabric all the way around her and tied it securely behind her back, she turned to him, her eyes wide and frightened.

Éponine hesitated to speak for a moment, then lowered her eyes and admitted, "I'm afraid."

"There is no need for you to be. You will stay close to me at all times once we are there," he told her, "but not so much so that people can tell you are with me. I will not let you out of my sight. Once the fighting begins, you must stay away from it." He paused, then told her grimly, "And if something should go wrong and I am discovered or shot, you are to leave and get yourself to safety."

She closed her eyes, sickened by the thought, but ultimately asked only, "Will you do the same? Stay away from the fighting?" He nodded, then turned to go retrieve his hat and place it upon his head. Before he could do so, however, her voice sounded out to stop him, "I…"

Javert turned to look back at her, and Éponine froze when she realized just what she wanted to say.

Against all reason, she wanted to tell him that she loved him. She did love him, but she had only just realized how much, and she had never believed something so strongly before in her life. She had thought she was in love with Marius, once, but she mused to herself that she had not known what love was then. She had slept with Montparnasse in a desperate attempt to feel adored and wanted by someone else as well, yet he had always been rough with her, desiring her body and not caring to know her otherwise. Javert was different, she thought. He had been cold to her once, but now he was only reverent, gentle, and though he had been rough with her in the past, he'd also touched her like she was pure gold, like there was nothing on earth that mattered besides her. He had made her feel as though she was adored and wanted in a way that no one else ever had before, and she cared for him so much that the idea of losing him was utterly terrifying, so much so that she could not even imagine what life would be like if she did. Yes, she decided, she loved him. She had never been surer of anything, but something kept her mouth closed, stopped her from telling him. She knew that he cared for her, but she could not be certain if those feelings ran as deep as love, yet. It would be difficult for him to love, she knew, and she could not be certain how he would react should she say what she wanted to say – and so she did not.

After she had not said anything for a minute, Javert spoke up, "What is it?"

"Nothing," she shook her head, and swallowed the declaration of love that was hanging on her tongue and beckoning her to release it, "I-it's nothing. Let's go."

She threw on the shirt, pants, and coat, then tucked her dark hair up into her hat in an attempt to give herself the appearance of a lad. He put on his hat as well and then pulled open the door, motioning for her to step outside first. She did so, and he followed behind her in silence as they left the station and made their way to the street in which the funeral procession was scheduled to take place. Once they were there, they blended into the crowd as well as they could, standing a few feet away from one another and analyzing their surroundings carefully to ensure no one had taken special notice of their arrival. Both could feel that there was a silent buzz that traversed the crowd, a hum not heard by the ears; only sensed. Éponine knew not how to describe it, but it was clear to everyone that this was not to be a conventional funeral procession in any way. She thought she could see Marius from a distance, and realized after a moment that he was surrounded by his friends from the Café Musain. She could remember a few of their names, as she'd often attended their meetings before she'd began to work for Javert, and she thought she could spot the leader – Enjolras, dressed in a fine red coat, looking around as if waiting for the right moment to spring into action, his eyes bright with the flames of rebellion.

Éponine felt a spike of sorrow pierce her then, for she knew it was quite likely that he, Marius, and the rest of the students would perish in their fight for freedom, and that this attempted revolution would be futile. She did not know whether to hope that they'd succeed or pray that they would fail, though she knew very well that, because of Javert, she should be doing the latter. She was ripped from her thoughts, however, when she noticed the students rushing out into the street all at once, climbing onto the carriage holding General Lamarque's body, waving flags, and encouraging the people in the crowd to rally in the street as well. This quite effectively halted the procession for a moment, and the National Guardsmen on horseback shot confused looks at one another, unsure of how to handle this situation. As she followed Javert out into the street, Éponine caught of glimpse of Marius atop the hearse and swallowed, murmuring a quick prayer under her breath that he would somehow be able to make it out of this alive. The procession began once more as per the urging of the students, and more and more people joined in behind it, crying out words of encouragement, but it was quickly stopped once more when they were cut off by a dozen or so soldiers on horseback, who had flanked the procession and then cut them off in the street. Javert hung back in the crowd somewhat, waiting to see just what would happen, and Éponine stayed close to him as he'd told her to, for she was just as scared of being out of his sight as he was of letting her out of it.

Then, a gunshot ripped through the air without warning, and Éponine and Javert both over to see that someone – one of the guardsmen, perhaps – had fired a shot from inside of the hearse, and that said shot had hit an unsuspecting old woman standing nearby. The instant she fell to the ground, someone cried out, "She's an innocent woman! Murderer!"

Then, the last few shreds of order evaporated, and the street descended into utter chaos. Shots began to be fired right and left, from the soldiers and from the students. The National Guardsmen charged, falling to the ground one by one, injured or dead. As soon as the Inspector began to hear gunshots, he backed away even further, moving in front of Éponine for fear a stray bullet would come her way, and hissing lowly, "Stay back."

She obliged, but after the shooting died down a little, Javert began to advance forward once more upon hearing the cry of, "To the barricade!"

Once more, she followed him, although not as closely this time to ensure no one suspected they had come here together. The yelling and shouting in the street was growing louder, and before she could blink, Éponine noticed furniture being thrown down from windows and crashing onto the street. A few times, she had to duck to the side to avoid being hit by the falling chairs and tables. Minutes later, she saw Marius ride in on a horse, and then watched as Javert disappeared inside the Café Musain for a moment to hide away his truncheon in the event that things did not go as planned for him. Éponine did what she could to blend in by helping stack the fallen furniture into a pile, and after he'd hidden his weapon, Javert began to do the same. They did not speak a word to one another, and only dared to exchange brief glances as they went about their work. Luckily, amidst all the disorder, no one seemed to recognize either Éponine or Javert, and for that they were grateful.

After the barricade had risen a few feet, the leader of the students called out, "I need a volunteer! Some who can find out their plans, when they will attack."

There was silence for a moment, and Éponine's eyes flew open wide when she heard Javert speak up, "I will do it." The students looked to each other, confused as to whom this volunteer was, and so the Inspector continued, "I was a soldier, in my younger days. I will uncover their plans."

In reply, the leader only nodded, and within seconds, a few young men hurried up to the Inspector. One handed him a pistol and clapped him on the back with a grin, "God bless you, monsieur. See, boys! The people know what is right. They will come to our aid!"

Feeling a hint of pity for the boys who he knew were marching willingly to their deaths, Javert lowered his eyes and nodded without a word, turning to go. Terrified of being left alone here when he said he would not let her out of his sight, Éponine hurried after him as fast as she could, and once they'd rounded a corner and were out of sight of the students, she grabbed onto his coat and tugged him backward, demanding, "What are you doing?" Irritated, he stopped and spun around to face her, and she furrowed her brow, "The soldiers are going to shoot you if you try to get close to them!"

"I am not going to go anywhere near the National Guard," he growled, glancing around to ensure one was watching them, "I will leave, then tell these boys they do not intend to attack tonight, and they will let down their guard. When they are attacked in truth, they will not be ready, and the barricade will fall with ease." He saw that she still looked unsure, and so he raised his chin and promised, "I will return after sundown."

Without saying another word, Javert turned and was gone, and Éponine was left in a stunned silence. She remained still for a moment, not able to move a muscle as she watched him walk away, but eventually, she turned and made her way back to the barricade with a sigh. She knew the Inspector's plan would be effective if it worked, yet still she was fearful for him, for reasons she couldn't understand. Once she was back amongst the students, she picked up a gun and pretended to clean it, leaning up against a wall and deciding that there was nothing she could do but wait for Javert's return.

Hours passed, and Éponine remained still, feeling quite out of place in the midst of all the students. Then, nearly half an hour after darkness had fallen, she heard someone on top of the barricade call out, "He's back!"

Her heart leapt to her throat, and she nearly dropped the gun she was holding. Within moments, a few of the students had let Javert inside and crowded around him, eager to hear what he had to say.

"What news have you for us, monsieur?" one of the students asked.

Javert took a breath, put on the most composed expression he could, and forced himself to sound disappointed when he told them, "They will not attack tonight." The young men looked to each other, unsure what to make of this development, "They mean to starve you out, to wait out the night, and then attack when the dawn comes."

Éponine let out a breath, for it seemed to her as though the students had believed Javert without a second thought, without bothering to doubt him. For a moment, she pitied the lot of them, lamenting how quickly they'd trusted Javert and how, ultimately, they would be betrayed by him. The students began to sit down and relax somewhat, and she thought a few looked consoled by the thought that they would not meet their end tonight. A deep, calm hush fell over the barricade for a moment, but said hush was shattered in a second's notice when Éponine heard the voice of a young boy cut through the air.

With horror, she realized it was the voice of Gavroche, who was sitting atop the barricade and eyeing Javert through narrowed, suspicious eyes.

"Liar!"


	23. XXIII

**XXIII**

* * *

"Liar!"

As soon as Gavroche's voice rang out into the night, every eye went to look at him, and he hopped off of his perch on top of the barricade to saunter up to Javert, a smug expression on his face, "He's lyin'! Don't listen to him! I'm sure you don't wanna help us, _Inspector Javert_."

Both Éponine and Javert froze at the revelation of Javert's identity, but Javert snapped out of it quickly and tried to make a dash away from the crowd of young men closing in around him, circling him like sharks in the water. They caught his arms with ease, however, and raised their guns at him, ready to shoot and end his life whenever they pleased. Terrified, Éponine nearly lunged towards them to tear them away from him, but stopped herself, for she knew that if they found out she was here with Javert, things would not go well for her, either. Her worst fear had been realized, she thought. He had been found out, and if the students were so inclined, she knew they would shoot him right in front of her, execute the man she'd come to love like some unwanted dog.

Éponine could only watch in horror as the men debated amongst themselves what the fate of the spy would be, "What are we to do with him, Enjolras?"

She held her breath as the leader clenched his jaw and ordered, "Take him to the tavern and tie him up. We shall decide what is to become of him later."

"I will not be judged by a court of traitors," the Inspector sneered before they could move, and Éponine wondered how he could appear so unafraid whilst staring Death in the face, "If you intend to shoot me, shoot me. I will not beg for mercy."

Éponine's heart was pounding, her ears ringing, terrified that one of the boys holding a gun at him would oblige and pull the trigger. But no one did any such thing, and instead the men began to guide him into one of the buildings. Javert, however, was not content to accept his fate, and, with immense strength that belied his age, he managed to throw the captors on either side of him off, then, when another approached him, he threw a punch and knocked the young man to the ground. Thinking that he might succeed in getting away, Éponine felt hope shoot through her, but it was crushed when she realized that one single man – even the great Inspector Javert – could not fight off more than a dozen others. The Inspector seemed to be doing extraordinarily well in the scuffle, however, but when he dashed back to retrieve his nightstick to aid him in the fight, all at once, without warning, two gunshots boomed out from inside the building. Éponine nearly screamed and hurried inside, fearing she would find him lying dead on the ground, but she discovered after a moment that the shots had appeared to have only hit Javert in the leg and brought him to his knees. Still, with a perseverance greater than she had ever seen in anyone, he continued to fight even though the pain in his leg seared through his flesh, but could no longer do so effectively when he was on his knees. After he'd swung his fist at another approaching student, the leader, Enjolras, picked up Javert's fallen truncheon, hit him over the head with it, and finally managed to knock him unconscious, ending the long, impressive struggle.

She felt her heart wrench within her chest as she looked upon the beaten Javert, and had to struggle to keep from crying at the sight. She knew the students had done what they'd deemed right and taken out the man spying on them, yet still, she could not help the rush of anger that coursed through her as she watched them tie him up in the tavern and leave him there, unconscious, a stream of blood beginning to trickle down his forehead. He had only been doing his job, she thought furiously, and suddenly, she felt the desire to hurt the students just as they'd hurt him.

But there was no use, she concluded as she reluctantly left the tavern along with the young men so as to not look odd by remaining there. There was nothing she could do, and she wasn't sure if she would be able to sneak an unconscious Javert away without the students noticing. The boys, having heard the sound of marching in the distance, hurried back to their positions at the barricade, but Éponine did not dare join them. Javert had told her to leave if something happened to him, and while she had no intentions of doing that, she had no intentions of letting herself be killed in this place, either. Not daring to return to the tavern just yet, she stayed as far away from the fighting as she could manage when it began. Bullets were flying through the air everywhere she looked, and she frowned when she saw how quickly the National Guard seemed to be overwhelming the barricade. They were climbing it quickly, and she knew that, since the students were devastatingly outnumbered, this might be over soon, and in a matter of mere minutes, they might all be dead. But all of a sudden, her eyes came upon a peculiar sight: she saw Marius light a torch, then bring it only inches away from the keg of gunpowder.

Éponine watched, astounded, as he looked the enemy in the eye and threatened without a hint of fear, "If you do not draw back, I'll blow the barricade!"

Everyone stopped moving, and the gunshots ceased altogether. Even the Army General of the National Guard looked terrified at the prospect of such a detonation, but, after thinking for a moment, he called out, "If you do that, you'll blow yourself with it!" To that, Marius said nothing, and there was something off in him that bewildered Éponine. He seemed so desperate, so willing to kill himself and everyone around him, and it shocked her. When he began to lower the flame closer to the gunpowder, however, the Army General yelled to his men, "Retreat! Fall back! Go! _Go_!"

The soldiers did not hesitate to obey, and within minutes, all the fighting had ceased, an eerie silence settling over the barricade once more. The students, however, did not seem calmed by it at all, for they knew very well that the fight was not over yet, and that the men would likely return in greater numbers in the morning – numbers that they would no longer be able to hold off. A light rain began to fall, and the sound of it pitter pattering on the ground put Éponine somewhat at ease, allowing her to relax and clear her spinning head. Shivering although it was not cold outside, she slumped against the side of a building, and let a few tears slip out of her eyes at last. All was not lost; that she knew. Javert, though injured and captured, was not dead, but she still could not help crying nonetheless. She cried for Marius, for the students who would likely all be dead by tomorrow, killed long before their time, and she cried to think of Javert tied up in the tavern, helpless, having been hit over the head and shot in the leg. She needed to go to him, she realized. For some reason, she could not stand the idea of him awakening without her there with him, but when she began to get to her feet and walk toward the tavern, she found herself running into a young man and nearly knocking him over.

"Excuse me-" he began, but stopped when he met her eyes, and she gulped when Marius's voice drifted to her ears, "'Ponine, what're you doing here?" He did not stop to let her answer, however, and shook his head, "It's not safe for you."

"I know, but I came…" she wracked her brain for an adequate excuse, and eventually settled on blurting out lamely, "I came with news about Cosette."

"Cosette?" He no longer seemed very concerned about her safety, but she did not mind, so long as he did not suspect she was here not because of Cosette but because of Javert, "Where is she? I saw her the night you brought her to me, but when I tried to find her again, she was gone. The house was empty."

"I know where she is," Éponine told him, and she was suddenly very thankful Cosette had told her the address to which she would be fleeing, "It…it's Rue de l'Homme-Arme, no. 7. That's where she should be."

Amidst all the sorrow and hopelessness that had been engraved onto his features by the loss of Cosette, there was a glint of hope in his eyes, and he placed one hand on her shoulder before hurrying away, "Thank you, 'Ponine." He turned and began to walk away, but after only one step in the other direction, he turned around to tell her, "You shouldn't stay here any longer. It's not safe."

Éponine saw it in Marius's eyes, then, that he knew that the odds of him surviving this fight were slim, almost nonexistent, and she felt another potent surge of sorrow that brought her close to tears once more. It didn't make sense, she thought, that these students should so willingly give up their lives – and for what? They must've known that this uprising would do nothing, would inspire no change, and the futility of it all made her want to weep with frustration. Discouraged, she only nodded and then watched mutely as Marius walked away, pulling out a piece of paper and taking a seat on an old crate to write. She lowered her eyes after a moment, and began to make her way stealthily over to the tavern. After checking to ensure no one was watching her, she slipped inside and closed the door behind her, approaching the Inspector slowly. She could feel her hat slip off her head and tumble to the ground, allowing her dark hair to fall around her shoulders, but she made no effort to pick it up or hide her sex any longer. She could hardly move while looking at his unconscious form, his neck held up by a loosely tied noose, his hands bound together with rope, and it pained her to see how wretched he looked. Éponine took a breath and knelt down before him, touching one of her hands tenderly to the side of his face and feeling the scratch of his unshaven cheek against her skin.

Unsure of what else to do, she tore off a piece of her shirt and pressed it up against the wound on his head, though that was not the injury she was most worried about. He'd been shot twice, and although it had only been his leg, she knew being shot at all was far from good for anyone. She moved behind him, then, and rolled up his pant leg was far as she could. The wounds there were bleeding as well, and so, like she'd done on the night she'd first met him, she set about stemming the flow of blood as best as she could by removing a piece of her discarded coat and tying it around them. As she was struggling to secure the cloth, she heard a grunt from Javert, and then saw him begin to stir. With all haste, she moved so that she was kneeling in front of him once more, and she felt her heart soar when he opened his eyes slightly to look at her.

"Éponine…" he rasped, and it seemed to her as though he was only semi-conscious and struggling to recognize her.

She felt her eyes begin to water beyond her control, "Yes. Yes, it's me."

"My leg…" his voice was hoarse, weak, and she had to strain to hear him properly.

"You were shot," she murmured, "But you'll be all right."

He became slightly more alert, then, "I told you to leave if this happened. You must go."

She shook her head, "No, I-"

"Go, Éponine," he commanded, louder than he had before, and she cupped his face in her hands.

"I'm not going anywhere without you," she swallowed, and croaked, "I-if they kill you then they'll have to kill me first."

Javert said nothing in reply, and as his foggy, aching head tried and failed to comprehend her words, he slipped from consciousness once more. The two of them spent nearly two hours in that way, only exchanging words when the Inspector was cognizant enough to do so. Éponine was forced to hide behind a nearby barrel to conceal herself from sight most of the time, but occasionally, she could be out in the open, when no one was looking into the tavern. All the while, she yearned to untie his bindings, but knew that doing so wouldn't do much good, for he was likely not able to walk and certainly not able to escape undetected. After two and a half hours had gone by, Éponine heard the cries of the students as they noticed someone else approaching the barricade and, afraid, she scampered behind the barrel, worried that someone would look in and catch a glimpse of her. She watched for a moment as the person – an old, weary-looking man dressed in a National Guard uniform – was let inside, though the instant that he was, the students pointed their guns at him and demanded to know what had brought him there.

"I come here as a volunteer," the man tried to explain, but the boys did not lower their weapons.

"You see that man over there?" one of them pointed out Javert, who was now almost continuously conscious and mostly aware of his surroundings, "He's a spy calling himself Javert. He came here as a volunteer too. So I'm afraid we don't want to take anyone else, _monsieur_."

Upon hearing the students speak of him, the Inspector looked up, and the moment his eyes came upon Jean Valjean, he felt the sudden urge to laugh. Though he was in pain, and though he knew the students likely meant to kill him, he wanted to laugh in spite of it all. Of course Valjean would be here; it only made sense that he would join these traitors when he himself was just as much of a criminal as the lot of them. For a moment, Valjean looked over at Javert, surprised, and Javert glared back at him, breathing heavily and wishing he did not look so wretched. Then, all of a sudden, Valjean tore his eyes from Javert, and looked up to find an enemy marksman who appeared to be aiming his gun at Enjolras.

Within seconds he had grabbed a gun, aimed it, and cried, "Look out!"

Hardly a minute later, the National Guardsman was shot down, and Enjolras, whom Valjean supposed was the leader of the students, extended a hand to him, "I owe you a great many thanks, monsieur."

Javert watched through narrowed eyes when Valjean, having no need for thanks, shook his head, looking over at him once more, "I have a favor I should like to ask of you, monsieur."

Enjolras nodded, "Of course."

"Give me the spy Javert," Valjean said, "Let me take care of him."

As soon as those words came to Éponine's ears, once more, panic tore through her. She did not know what motive this man would have to kill Javert, but even so, she was terrified. They had come so far, she and Javert, and she knew she could not bear seeing him murdered at the hands of this man – or at the hands of anyone else, for that matter, when she'd only just realized that she loved him.

She closed her eyes, praying that Enjolras would deny him this, but her head started to spin when he replied, "Very well. Do what you must."

She swallowed and squeezed her eyes closed as the man stepped inside, preparing herself to hear the gunshot that would take Javert's life. It never came, however, and she peaked out from behind the barrel to see the man looking down at Javert with mixed emotions written upon his face. When she got a good look at his features for the first time, Éponine felt her heart stop beating for a moment, and all the blood drained from her face.

It was Jean Valjean, the man in the yellow coat, the man who'd taken Cosette away, the man who would certainly have more motive to want Javert dead than anyone else.

She could only watch as he cut the Inspector's bindings and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him to his feet and guiding him into an adjacent alleyway. Éponine followed quietly, her footfalls silent, but stopped at the back door for a moment to assess the situation.

"We meet again, Inspector," she heard Valjean say, almost as though he thought it ironic, and Javert sneered.

"If you intend to kill me, Valjean, then kill me now." She saw the other man remove something from his pocket, and then, she heard Javert growl, "You do not prefer to shoot me? You would rather slit my throat? Very well. Get on with it."

Éponine peaked her head further out the door then, her heart banging on the inside of her ribcage madly, and when she saw the gleam of a knife catch in the moonlight, she scampered out into the alley as fast as she could, throwing herself in front of Javert and crying, "No!" Valjean stopped what he was doing instantly and stood still. Éponine swallowed and panted, "Please, monsieur…do not kill him-"

"Stand aside, Éponine," Javert ordered.

She shook her head, "I-I won't, I-"

"_Stand aside_," he hissed, and reluctantly, she backed away from him. Then, he lowered his voice and looked up at her, "If I am going to die, let me die with honor."

"No," she cried again, moving close to Valjean and taking hold of his sleeve, "Please, monsieur, no…"

Valjean did not stop, however, and Éponine held her breath as he inched the knife closer and closer to the Inspector. Éponine clung to his arm desperately, trying to pull him away, but her grip went slack and her jaw dropped when he brought the knife to the ropes encircling Javert's wrists and cut them off, then told him, "Get out of here." Valjean looked to Éponine, and softened his voice, "You'd best go as well, mademoiselle. This is no place for a young lady."

"Don't understand…" Javert muttered, his voice gravelly, deep. Before either of them could say any more, Éponine hurried back over to him and let him support himself against her, knowing it would be difficult for him to walk with his injured leg.

"Come on," she encouraged, "Let's go."

He took a few, slow steps with one of his arms slung over her shoulders, but after a minute, he turned to look back at Valjean, "I do not want the mercy of a criminal. You are as much a thief now as you were years ago. You want a deal, do you not? You would not trade your life for mine without wanting something in return."

He snarled, and thought for a moment that he should tell the man to shoot him, for he did not care whether or not he lived. When he glanced over at Éponine, however, and saw how scared she seemed, he refrained from doing so. Perhaps he had not cared whether or not he'd lived before, but now, because of Éponine, he did, and he could not ask Valjean to shoot him in good faith.

"I do not want a deal," Valjean told him calmly, "I do not want anything from you. I do not blame you for chasing me as you have; it was your duty, and I suppose it is your duty still. But I pray you will be gone from this place and get yourself to safety." He looked to Éponine, and nodded politely at her, before telling Javert, "If I do not die here, you may find me at Rue de l'Homme-Arme, no. 7. I do not doubt we will meet again."

Not knowing what else to say and utterly bewildered by the notion that Valjean had saved his life, Javert let Éponine lead him away in silence. Just before they turned the corner, however, Valjean aimed the pistol he'd been given up in the air and pulled the trigger. Éponine jumped, and then looked back briefly at the man called Jean Valjean, giving him a smile and praying he understood how thankful she was. When he nodded at her once more, she knew that he had, and so she began to lead Javert onward down the streets, to the nearest hospital she knew that was run by nuns and would take anyone without asking any questions. She knew it to be a few miles away, however, and though Javert was trying not to lean all his weight against her, he was not doing a very good job of it. She nearly had to pull him onward, and she could feel herself very quickly becoming tired. However, she pushed onward with all her might and ignored the burning ache within her muscles, even though every bone in her body was screaming at her to stop and rest. They grew closer and closer, yet every minute felt like a decade to Éponine, and when they finally did reach the hospital, she barely had the strength to drag herself and Javert up to the door and bang on it loudly.

"Please, someone!" she cried out, "Someone…"

Within minutes, two nuns appeared at the door and ushered her inside, relieving her of the heavy burden of the Inspector and then helping her into a chair when she collapsed from exhaustion, breathing heavily.

"He…he…h-he was shot. In the leg. Twice," she managed to say, "Please…help him, sister."

"Of course we will, my child," the old lady reassured her, "How far have you walked to bring him here? You are exhausted."

"I…I don't know," she panted, "It… was a long way."

"Here, mademoiselle," the nun helped her to her feet, led her down a short hallway, and then finally brought her to an unoccupied hospital bed, where she laid her down and tucked the sheets around her, "You may rest here for the night."

Her eyelids already beginning to droop, Éponine nodded, but, just as the nun turned to leave, she spoke up in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper, "Sister?"

The old woman turned back to her, "Yes, mademoiselle?"

"Where are they taking him?"

"I imagine they will remove the bullets and patch him up."

Éponine struggled to stay awake, though her world was quickly growing dimmer and dimmer, exhausted as she was by the day's events, "When can I see him?"

"You may see him in the morning, mademoiselle," she replied gently, "For now, I believe you should rest."

With that, the nun turned and left, and although Éponine's body longed for nothing more than sleep, slumber, for some reason, refused to capture her. She'd not slept alone without Javert for months, and it did not feel right to her, lying in this cold, empty bed without him beside her. She began to tremble, feeling as though she was lying on sheets of ice even though the blanket covering her was relatively warm. She begged God to let her sleep, to let her escape reality and leave this horrid day behind, yet still, she could not. She knew that the surgery to remove the bullets might take a few hours, and so she waited in silence, anxious to find Javert and be with him once more. Once three hours had passed, she decided she'd had enough of waiting and got out of bed, creeping as quietly as she could down the hallway she'd seen the nuns take him. Eventually, she came upon a long corridor that held many hospital beds with thin sheets hung between them, to give the occupants some semblance of privacy. There were not many people occupying the beds, however, and, after looking at each bed without spotting Javert, she crept down the middle once more to ensure she hadn't missed him.

She heard a voice rasp her name, all of a sudden, and she spun around to find Javert lying in a bed below a small window that allowed the moonlight to pour onto his face. He looked tired, she thought, and a little paler than usual, but otherwise appeared healthy. She gave Javert a weary grin and hurried towards him, considering kneeling beside him but ultimately choosing to slip into the bed and lay with him. Her presence was not particularly comfortable for either of them, seeing as the bed had not been designed for two people, but Javert did not want her to leave and Éponine did not consider doing so for even a moment. Without a word, she wrapped an arm around him and rested her head on his chest, and Éponine felt tears come once more to her eyes when she heard his heartbeat. All was not lost, she thought again. He was still alive. She was still alive. They would be all right.

"What are you doing here?" Javert uttered in a hushed tone, for he knew the pious nuns here would not take kindly to an unmarried man and woman in bed together.

"I…I'm so tired but…" she exhaled slowly, "I couldn't sleep without you."

"The sisters here will not approve."

Éponine shook her head, "I don't care." She thought for a moment, then asked, "Did they remove the bullets?" He nodded, but she noticed that something else seemed to be bothering him, and frowned, "What is it?"

"They say the wounds show signs of infection," he said lowly, "A physician will be summoned in the morning."

She swallowed, "But…how? I-it was only-"

"It is nothing," he assured Éponine, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her closer to him.

She said no more on the matter, and for a while, they laid there without saying a word. Éponine had so much she wanted to say; she wanted to speak of Jean Valjean, of the man who'd saved his life, but she could feel somehow that Javert would not want to talk about him, and so she kept quiet. There was something off about Javert, she noticed. His gaze looked distant, his eyes dull, and she could see how confused he was, how his mind simply could not fathom the idea that Valjean was not the evil man he'd long believed him to be. She did not know how to ease his troubled mind, but after a moment, she put the silence to an end.

"I love you," she murmured, and when she saw his eyes widen slightly, she swallowed. Stunned, he said nothing, and after a minute, she told him with a little grin, "It's all right if you don't say it back. I just…I wanted you to know."

Her words forced Javert to stop and think. Did he love her in return? Was a man such as him capable of doing so? He did not think that he'd ever cared for someone in the way he cared for her, but he realized, then, that he did not know if he loved her, if he was able to give her the affection and happiness she deserved. Perhaps, he thought, she would be better off with some passionate, romantic youth who would never hesitate to tell her he loved her, or that she was beautiful, sent down from heaven. Javert knew he could never be like that, and maybe, he thought, she deserved better than a man like him. Though he had seldom thought of it before, he was forced to face the fact that he was more than twice her age, that he would be an old man while she would be only a woman of thirty years. Javert knew he would not live forever, and if her heart was to be broken beyond repair when he passed, then he did not want her to love him at all and know much misery. Javert did not want to lie to her and tell her what she wanted to hear, and so he said nothing, staying painfully silent as Éponine sighed and nestled her face into the crook of his neck. She did not seem to expect him to say it in return and for that he was grateful, but it was not as though it did not trouble him to know that she wanted him to say what he simply could not say.

"I thought I would lose you," she confessed, her voice muffled, "And I've never been so afraid." Again, he said nothing, and she bit her lip, "They're all going to die, aren't they? The students? Marius…and Enjolras…"

Solemnly, Javert nodded, and she felt a tear slide down her cheek. All of a sudden, he shifted in the bed so that they were eye to eye, and said firmly, "But we are alive. That is all that matters."

She gave him a shaky smile, then pressed her lips together and muttered, "Yes. Yes… you're right."

They spent the rest of the night together in silence, and when the dawn came and cannons boomed in the distance, they tightened their hold on one another and closed their eyes.


	24. XXIV

**Note: **I'm going to be away all next week without access to my computer, so I've decided to finish things up this week with two chapters instead of one. This story comes to a close with this chapter and the next, and the final one will be up on Sunday. Thank you for reading, and I hope you'll be kind enough to tell me what you think as this story starts to wrap up.

* * *

**XXIV**

* * *

As soon as Éponine heard footsteps approaching Javert's bed in the morning, she all but flew out from under the covers and rose to stand on shaky knees when one of the sisters and a man she assumed was a doctor came to stand before the bed, lowering her eyes and feeling her cheeks begin to grow hot with embarrassment. The old woman looked suspicious of the pair before her but said nothing, and the doctor disregarded it as well, instead only stepping forward to greet Javert amiably, "Hello, monsieur. I am Eugene DuPont."

Unaccustomed to receiving someone while he was lying down – for it did not give him the sense of authority he usually had – Javert cleared his throat and sat up, nodding politely at the man without a word and shifting uncomfortably. After setting down a bag of supplies on the bedside table, the doctor looked to Javert, "May I examine your wounds, monsieur?" Sensing that she was perhaps not wanted here at the moment, Éponine began to make her way away from bed, but the doctor stopped her, "You may stay if you wish, mademoiselle."

She looked to the Inspector, unsure of what to do, and when he nodded, she strolled back over to his side with a little grin, taking a seat on a stool beside the bed. She was still dressed in her shirt and trousers from the night before, and she could tell that the doctor and the nun seemed quite uncertain what to make of her – this girl who was, for some reason, dressed as a lad, who was looking at Javert with a fondness that led them to believe she was not simply his friend, nor was she his daughter. Narrowing his eyes, the doctor pulled the covers away from Javert's leg, then unwound the bandages with careful fingers and disposed of them. Once his eyes came into contact with the wound, however, Éponine could see a change in him; he looked grave, upset by what he saw, and it made her gulp, dread filling the pit of her stomach. When he brought his hand to the wound to touch it gently, she saw Javert clench his jaw in pain, but he made no sound until the man appeared to be done examining him and motioned for the nurse the bring over fresh bandages.

When Javert said nothing to the doctor, Éponine spoke up for him, "What is it?"

"I am afraid it is not good news," the doctor replied grimly. He took a breath and looked at Javert, but did not bother dancing around the truth, "The infection is spreading – quickly. Very quickly. If it continues in this manner…" he paused, then finally told him, "You may lose part of the leg, monsieur."

Horrified by the thought and too stunned to speak, the Inspector kept his mouth closed. Éponine stopped breathing for a moment, then recovered slightly and demanded, "But how? I-it was only…it wasn't…That's absurd!"

The doctor said nothing to that, and instead tried to put on the brightest expression he could muster in the face of such horrible news, "I will return in a few hours. If it has not receded, I believe we ought to go ahead with the amputation before it becomes worse." After another long pause, he bid them farewell, "Good day, monsieur. Mademoiselle."

He quit the room only seconds later, and the nurse did as well, leaving Éponine and Javert alone. Both their minds racing, they remained in silence for a lengthy minute, and then, Éponine croaked, "I…"

She shook her head and let the words die on her tongue, feeling the urge to cry over this hopeless situation that had, somehow, not gotten better, but had only gotten worse. After a moment, the Inspector rasped, "I will not be able to do my job if I am crippled." She thought he looked utterly miserable about the prospect of not being to be a policeman if he lost his leg and was given a wooden limb to replace it. He ground his teeth together, "I would sooner let myself die than be made to retire from the force. It has been my life," he spoke slowly, his voice heavy, "And without it there is nothing."

"No," she shook her head and told him, raising her voice slightly, "It is not your life. I-it's not all you have."

"I fail to see what else there is," he growled, though perhaps he would not have done so had his mind not been so clouded by rage and unable to think clearly.

Hurt, her mouth came open slightly, and she furrowed her brow, taking hold of his hand and grasping it tightly, "Don't you understand? You have me. And…" she swallowed and exclaimed, "A-and you're not going to let yourself die just because you don't see that!"

Her words made him freeze, and he knew, at that moment, that he did in fact see how she cared for him, and he realized that he could not let this infection slowly take hold of his body and kill him simply because he believed he had nothing left for him in the word – when he did, when she was right here, right beside him, reprimanding him for being such a fool and not realizing it.

"You swore to me I'd never lose you," she reminded him, but her voice grew smaller with every word, afraid that he was not taking what she was saying to heart, "Keep your promise."

Gently, as though she would pull away if he did so, Javert tugged her closer to him so that she was leaning forward, almost falling out of her seat, and their lips were ghosting across one another's. After a moment he closed the gap between them, kissing her softly, tenderly, in a mellow way he'd never done before, and it was with that kiss that Javert told Éponine everything she needed to know: that he would keep his promise, that he knew, in the end, that his work was not all he had to live for. It had been that way before, he thought, and perhaps if she were not here beside him now he would be content to let himself die, yet now, he was almost terrified of the thought of leaving her alone. It was not Death he feared; he had accepted years ago that, in his line of work, Death was a very real possibility at all times and could be waiting for him around every corner, in the face of every criminal he met.

He realized that he feared abandoning her more than he feared anything else, and it was with this in mind that he murmured hoarsely against her mouth, "I will."

When she gave him a watery smile and wrapped her arms around him, he felt a kind of fear he'd not felt in years, and he knew at that instant that he had never had so much to live for – and never so much to lose.

* * *

The afternoon arrived and brought with it the return of the doctor, who once more took a look at the wounds on Javert's leg. Deep within her, Éponine had held out hope that the infection would die down and that nothing would have to be done to keep it from spreading, but the moment the doctor looked up and she saw that he did not at all look encouraged, her stomach sank, and a lump began to gather in her throat, her optimism dashed within seconds.

"It has become worse," the doctor told them, "I am afraid we must take action, monsieur. Will you allow me to remove it?"

Glancing briefly over at Éponine, Javert let out a dejected breath, "There is no other way."

"No. But this may save your life, and you will not lose all of the leg if we operate now. If we do not…I fear the problem will only grow."

Javert knew not what to think, at that instant. The notion of losing a limb – especially a leg – bothered him immensely, for he'd never even considered the fact that such a thing could happen to him. He had sustained countless injuries while on the job, and had nearly been killed a number of times, but for some godforsaken reason, being shot only twice by a group of foolish schoolboys would cause him to lose a leg, crippling him and, in turn, forcing him out of work, out of the only life he'd ever known. He did not understand the logic behind it all, but he knew there was no point in being angry about it when there was nothing he could do to stop the inevitable loss of his limb. He had known he would have to retire from the force eventually, when he became too old to be an effective officer, but he had always thought that day distant, far-off, always eons away from happening. It was happening now, however, and Javert was confronted with the bitter truth that there was nothing he could do but accept it for what it was.

"Very well," he said finally, after a tense moment of silence, "You have my permission, doctor."

The doctor did not waste even a moment after hearing those words. Hardly seconds after Javert's approval was given, he had summoned two nurses inside, who began hurrying about and preparing for the surgery. They ushered Éponine out of the way almost immediately, and she began to panic. Everything was happening so fast – too fast.

She rushed over to one of the sisters and declared, "I-I want to stay with him."

"Mademoiselle…" the old woman sighed and pulled her to the side for a moment, "this will not be a pretty sight. And he will endure great pain-"

"I can handle a little blood and pain, sister," she insisted.

The nun sighed, then informed her solemnly, "I do not think you understand. If the sedatives we give him do not work – and it is likely that they may not – he will not only be in pain. He will be in agony." The thought of Javert in such a state made it feel as though someone was holding her chest and squeezing all the air out of her lungs, and she fought to breathe properly for a moment. The older woman saw her distress and patted her on the arm, "It will be best if you are not here, mademoiselle. But, I must warn you…" she closed her eyes, "many times… the patient does not live through an operation such as this."

"Does not…" she choked out, her overwhelmed mind struggling to understand, "Does not live?" She clenched her jaw, suddenly angry at the woman for some irrational reason, "You don't know him. O-of course he'll live!"

Of course he'll live, she told herself, yet another voice nagged at her and pressed, But what if he does not?

At that, Éponine shivered, her mind incapable of fathoming such a thing.

"I shall pray that he will, but I want you to prepare yourself should he-"

"No," she cut her off. She did not think she could hear the damning words spoken aloud, "No, he will." The old woman said no more, knowing that any attempts to persuade the girl otherwise would be in vain. Suddenly, Éponine cleared her throat and asked, "Can I…can I have a moment alone with him, please?"

The woman nodded, and gestured for the other nurse and the doctor to step away for a moment and leave them by themselves. After they were gone, Éponine approached the bed slowly, her eyes brimming with tears that she knew she could not shed. If he did not survive, she did not want her final moments with him to be her crying into his shoulder, a blubbering, useless mess of emotions. Though he was loathe to show it, she could see a hint of fear in his eyes, and to know that he was afraid as well made her even more scared for him. She hastened toward his bed and fell to her knees beside it, then grabbed his hand tightly in hers, holding onto him with desperation. He said nothing, his eyes looking her over in silence, but when she felt him squeeze her hand, she finally gave in and let the tears rain down her cheeks, her shoulders quivering with suppressed sobs.

"I…" she managed to say, then blurted out dumbly, "I don't want to cry."

"Then do not," he replied firmly. Something compelled him to reach his hand out and brush away her tears, and when he drew back after doing so, he could not say he regretted it, and instead found himself regretting that he did not know how to console her further. When he spoke, his voice was steady, "There is no need for you to cry."

"Don't try to reassure me," she sniffed, "One of the sisters told me how dangerous this is. And that…and that you might…" He opened his mouth to say something, but she spoke first, the words rushing forth all at once, "I love you. And I know…I-I know perhaps you don't want to say it back, but-"

"But if I do not live…" he exhaled slowly, his mind a tempest of emotions that he could not make sense of, "I should like you to know-"

"_No_," she cut him off once more, and when she saw how taken aback he looked by the power in her trembling voice, she softened it, "I don't want you to say it just because you're afraid you might die."

He thought for a moment, and, with his eyes locked firmly on her, said, "Then know that I feel the same."

When the nuns and the doctor reentered the small space, Éponine bit back her tears once again and struggled to steady her breathing, then tightened her hold on his hand and ensnared her fingers even more forcefully through his as she got to her feet, "I…I will be here when you wake up."

Before Éponine or Javert could say any further words of parting to one another, one of the sisters guided Éponine out of the area and down the hallway, and the Inspector watched her go with what felt like a twenty pound weight on his chest. His will to live had never been greater than it was at that moment, as he watched her walk away and disappear from sight.

He had never had more to lose, and he was utterly determined not to lose it, now.

Stopping up her tears once more, Éponine let the nun walk her out of the room, down a hallway, then finally left the younger girl at the door and excused herself. For a moment she was at a loss for what to do, where to go. Yet out of the blue, a thought hit her, and she knew at once where she wanted to go. She wanted to return to the barricade, though she knew not why, for she was almost terrified of revisiting the dreadful place, terrified of what she might find there. But she did not doubt herself for even a second; she needed to know what had happened, if anyone had survived – though inside, she knew that was unlikely. Taking a deep breath, Éponine hurried out into the street and swallowed her sorrow as best she could. After walking at a snail's pace for a long while, her muscles sore and aching from nearly dragging the Inspector to the hospital the night before, she came upon the barricade, and the moment she did, all the breath left her body.

When she was a girl, her father had told her stories about the things he'd seen at the Battle of Waterloo. He'd told her how the fields had run red with blood from the corpses of fallen soldiers, how the blood had watered the flowers and turned them a gruesome shade of crimson, how the ground had been littered with so many dead bodies that one could no longer see the grass beneath. Éponine had never dreamed she would see the aftermath of a battle, and as she peered out at the carnage before her with horror, looking at the corpses all over the street and watching as their blood seeped into the cobblestones, she felt bile rise in her throat. There were pools of blood everywhere she looked, and where it was not pooling, it was smeared across the ground. There were women on their knees – the mothers, sisters and wives of the dead men, perhaps – trying to scrub it away, their brushes scraping across the ground as hard as they could make them go, for they could not stand the sight of the damning color, either. Everywhere Éponine looked she saw red, and she had to close her eyes to rid herself of the grisly sight.

The bodies of the National Guardsmen were almost innumerable, and she felt a sudden rush of grief for them, for the men who had only been doing their jobs – men like Javert. She gulped and looked away, directing her eyes upward for a moment and gaping at what she saw. The leader, Enjolras – who had once been so passionate, so enthusiastic and full of life – was hanging out of a window with bullet wounds in his chest, his face pale, yellowed by Death. She hugged her arms to her chest tightly, mourning his passing but also finding that she was endlessly thankful that she had not met a similar end. Then, lowering her eyes, she stepped inside a nearby building, and noticed the bodies of the students lined up side by side, their faces as pale and lifeless as their leader's. After walking for a moment, her eyes came upon a familiar face, and when she saw who it was, she fell to her knees, and her tears finally broke free from their captivity, her entire body quaking with sobs.

"Gavroche," she breathed, reaching out to lay a hand upon his cold cheek, "Oh God…"

Once more, she felt as though she could vomit at the sight of her little brother lying dead on the ground. Éponine could barely comprehend the fact that this was reality and not some terrible, ghastly nightmare. Unable to look into his dull blue eyes – which had once been so bright and full of childish joy – she reached down and closed them, weeping so hard that her chest hurt and her lungs could not draw breath properly. Who in God's name would shoot him, a child, a little boy? Any sympathy for the National Guardsmen she'd had was washed away in mere seconds and replaced with fury, and Éponine hoped that whatever monster had shot Gavroche now laid cold and dead on the ground as well. Oh, she had heard of people saying that war was hell, but she'd never known how true that was until now. All the students had had long lives to live, and she felt anger rip through her, suddenly. Why had they all been such fools? Had they not anticipated that this would happen? And why had Gavroche gotten in the way of the fighting? Didn't he realize how great the danger for him was? She was so furious and sad and terrified that she did not know what to think, and all she could do was cry, her face contorted and her cheeks soaked with hot, ugly tears.

What if Javert did die? The thought only made her weep harder. If he died she would have no one, no one at all; he was the last person she had in the world, her only light amongst total darkness. There wouldn't be a single person for her to call her friend – except maybe Azelma, but Éponine imagined that she'd likely run away in an attempt to evade the law after her arrest. She would have no one. Gavroche was dead. Though she did not see his body anywhere, she knew Marius was almost certainly dead too. Her father was in prison; God only knew where her mother was.

She had felt such hope for the future whilst she was in the presence of Javert, and it'd been such a marvelous feeling to feel wanted by someone, and she thought, then, that if he were to die, then she would not – and could not – go on without him. She'd always said that wherever he went, she would go as well, and if that meant accompanying him to the afterlife, then so be it. Oh, she knew suicide to be a mortal sin, and she knew that it would perhaps damn her soul, but, being that she was utterly distraught and at her wit's end, she did not care. Éponine cradled her head in her hands, grabbing fistfuls of her hair and hiccupping as her sobs grew less and less harsh. She did not know how long she remained there, but when a few of the women who had been cleaning the street entered the building near sundown to take the students' bodies away to be buried, they came upon Éponine sitting there still, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her tears had calmed to light sniffles, yet she was frozen, and could not for the life of her remember how to move.

One of them – a large, middle-aged woman – approached her and laid a hand on her shoulder, "Are you all right, mademoiselle?" She followed Éponine's gaze, and when her eyes fell upon the young boy, she asked, "Did you know him?"

Éponine nodded, and when she spoke, her voice was but a faint, croaky whisper, "He was my brother."

The woman let out a sigh, then extended a hand to help her to her feet, "Do you have somewhere you can go, darling? Somewhere you can stay?"

All at once, Éponine shot to her feet, and when she looked outside and saw that the sun had vanished, a bolt of terror ran through her. It had been hours, and surely, she thought, Javert's surgery would be over by now. The thought thrilled and petrified her.

"Yes," she breathed, nodding wildly and beginning to back toward the door, "Y-yes. Yes."

Without uttering another word, she turned and ran out of the place, her mind on one thing and one thing only: Javert. Though her body hurt and her lungs burned, she ran faster than she could ever remember running, tearing through the streets and darting around corners with the swiftness and stealth of a cat. She was running so quickly that she nearly tripped over her own feet and fell a number of times, yet she kept onward anyway. After what'd seemed like ten interminable hours, she arrived back at the hospital and stumbled clumsily into the backdoor. She hurried down the hallway to the large room where Javert was being kept, and, when she saw the nun she'd spoken to before, she hurried up to her.

"Sister…" she panted, "Sister…how is he? Please…" her voice broke, and she found herself unable to stave off her tears, "Please… tell me he isn't gone."

The nurse smiled, then told her gently, "He is alive, mademoiselle."

A breathless sound of simultaneous surprise and disbelief escaped Éponine's lips, and after the words registered in her mind, her knees gave out below her, and she felt as though she could weep with relief. Before she hit the ground, the older woman managed to reach out and catch her, then helped her back into a standing position.

A shaky grin crossed her features, and she swayed on her feet, "Can I see him?"

"He is asleep at the moment. I imagine you know it was not easy for him. He almost bit clean through the block of wood we gave him to bite down on. But never once did he cry out or complain. Why, I don't think I've seen someone in such pain be so strong. And…" the woman let out a breath, "do know what I believe, mademoiselle?"

Éponine frowned and shook her head, "What?"

The old nun smiled, placed a hand on Éponine's shoulder, and told her softly, "I believe he will awake soon, because he has someone to awake for."


	25. XXV

**Note: **This story is now complete. I'd like to thank you all for your ongoing support as this fic has progressed; it means so much to me to know that my writing is enjoyed, and oh my gosh has this been a journey! As of now I have got another big, novel-length J/E story in the works with a premise that I think is quite interesting, and though I'm not entirely sure when I'll start publishing that, I hope you guys will be on the lookout for more from me in the very near future.

Thanks again!

* * *

**XXV**

* * *

Éponine remained at Javert's bedside all that day and all that night, watching him closely, as though she was afraid his chest would stop rising and falling at any moment and he would be gone. He looked paler and weaker than she'd ever seen him, but his cheeks still held some color, and he'd not yet broken out into a fever or anything of the sort that would signal that something was going wrong with his recovery. The nurses had judged him healthy, telling her that he'd lost consciousness because of the pain during the surgery but would awake after a good long rest. Once or twice, she laid her head down on Javert's chest and simply listened to the sound of his heartbeat, taking immense comfort in the fact that he, despite all the death and destruction around them, was still very much alive. A few times she found her eyes drawn to the spot underneath the covers where his leg rested, and when she did, she felt nauseous and forced herself to look away. It'd been cut just below the knee and he'd not lost a great deal of it, but it would, unfortunately, still be enough to keep him from running and doing the things that being a policeman would require of him; things that he would not be able to do effectively even with an artificial limb. Éponine knew how troubling the idea of losing his job was to Javert, and it troubled her as well to think that he would likely have no idea what to do with himself after this.

Exhausted after remaining awake for so long without rest and seeing such traumatizing things, Éponine finally fell asleep during the afternoon of the second day, her arms and head resting on Javert's chest as she dozed. A few of the sisters passed by and considered waking her, but eventually decided it was best they not, for they knew she'd not slept properly for days and needed whatever sleep she could get. After only a few hours of slumber, however, Éponine heard someone say her name, though, only barely conscious as she was, she didn't know just who it was, and their voice sounded distant, far-off, as though they were calling her name from another dimension. Then, they said it again, and she felt her shoulder being nudged gently by large hand.

"Éponine."

She stirred, and after a moment, finally opened her eyes slowly to see who had disturbed her. When she saw that it had been none other than Javert, a sleepy, almost incredulous grin crossed her features, and she made a noise that sounded like a half-sob, half-laugh, grabbing hold of his hand and letting tears of relief tumble down her cheeks. Tired and still in great pain, Javert did not smile in return, but after a moment, he rasped, "You are here."

"O-of course I am," she laughed and sniffled, thinking to herself that he sounded like he'd been afraid she might not be, "I told you I would be."

Though he almost could not say how glad he was to see her face again, he tore his eyes from hers then and looked down at his legs, eyeing the missing part of his left with a frown, "My leg…"

She bit her lip and lowered her eyes, then squeezed his hand and told him, "It doesn't matter. You can wear a wooden one – and you'll still be able to walk." He looked over at her, and the look in his eyes made it clear to her that she was not speaking of what would really devastate him: being left incapable of enforcing the law, of doing his duty. Éponine swallowed, "You…you've been working so hard for so long. Isn't it time that you rest?" He said nothing, not at all encouraged by her words. Sensing this, she reached out and laid a hand upon his cheek, leaving him no choice but to look her in the eyes, "I'll always be here. You're not going to be alone." She gave him a little smile, "I promise."

Her words consoled him greatly – more than he feared he could ever express to her – and he shifted himself over in the bed, hissing in pain as he did so and motioning for her to lie down next to him. Without bothering to slip underneath the covers, she obliged, and held onto Javert tightly, her trembling hands grasping his body as if trying to ensure he was not some kind of wonderful dream that would soon disappear.

"One of the sisters…she told me that you were in pain." Éponine saw him cringe as he recalled the agony – agony worse than any he had ever felt before – and she let out a breath, "But she said that you did not cry out…and that she'd never seen someone as strong as you." She rested her chin upon his chest and looked up at him, "How did you bear it?"

"I thought of you," he answered honestly, and she could've wept at that instant, silently thanking the man Jean Valjean and God for saving his life. The Inspector glanced down at her and realized, then, that something else seemed to be bothering her immensely, "What is it?"

"What do you mean?" she tried to feign perfect, unadulterated happiness, though she did not do a good job of it and he saw right through her.

"You have been crying," he observed, noticing that her eyes were so red and puffy that it seemed she'd been sobbing for hours on end, and he determined that it was likely not all over him.

She sucked in a breath, then finally admitted, "I…I-I went back to the barricade."

"You should not have returned there," he said, though he could not find it in himself to snap at her.

Éponine shook her head, "All the fighting was over. There were bodies everywhere…and the street…there was blood. Pools of it wherever I walked. And the students…" A sob burst forth from her mouth, and she could not keep others from following quick in succession, "Gavroche…my brother…he…" she composed herself long enough to bite out, "They killed him too."

Unable to hold herself together any longer, Éponine finally broke down in sobs again, and Javert wrapped an arm tightly around her. She felt horribly guilty for crying over something else when she knew how much turmoil his mind was in, yet she couldn't stop herself, and Javert did not blame her for expressing her sorrow. He had lost his leg and she had lost her brother, and she had as much of a right to cry as he did – though of course he would not do so. Still, there was a sinking feeling in his stomach every time he looked at the place where the lower half of his leg once had been, and he almost dreaded the day he would have to leave this place and confront his injury in truth. He closed his eyes and brought her closer to him, clutching her body to his to assure her that all was not lost, for he knew well it was not as though there was no hope for the two of them, no brighter tomorrow.

They had lost a great many things, but they had not lost each other.

* * *

After more than two weeks spent in the hospital recovering, it was determined that Javert was well enough to leave, and the thought both relieved and distressed him. He'd been fitted with a wooden leg that would help him walk, but when it came time to put it on and return to the outside word once more, Javert found himself reluctant to face the fact that he could no longer be quite as mobile as he had been before. When he first walked with the leg, he hobbled along clumsily and quickly became irritated with it, cursing the damn thing, but Éponine did not let him give up so easily. She insisted on helping him along and looping her arm through his as he stumbled around, letting him lean on her whenever he needed to and catching him if he ever began to fall. Though he detested feeling so inferior and unable to do things for himself, he could do nothing but accept her assistance, and bit by bit, he began to walk more smoothly, only tripping or faltering a few times.

Then, after he'd learned how to walk once more, Javert faced another problem entirely. He knew he could not remain at the police station, in the room where he'd lived for years, for it would be something akin to torture for him to be so close to his work with him unable to do it, and so he decided that he must set about finding another place for him and Éponine to live. In time, he came upon a small, vacant single-story home near the outskirts of Paris. It was a little place – not at all expensive or ornate – with only five rooms in total, but the two decided it suited them rather nicely, and so, on the twenty-second of June, they returned to the station for the last time to collect their belongings. A few of his officers had gathered to bid Javert farewell, but he did not really care much to speak with the lot of them. They all seemed somewhat bewildered by the presence of Éponine, confused by the way she walked so close to Javert and seemed at ease around him, but neither Éponine nor Javert made an effort to keep their distance from one another when it no longer mattered, anymore. They had been pretending for so long, Éponine thought, and she had no desire to keep what they were a secret. Wanting to get a rise out of his former subordinates while she still could, Éponine stood on her tiptoes and kissed Javert on the cheek quickly just as they were preparing to head to his room, and she smiled a little to herself when she saw their jaws drop and their eyes grow wide.

They collected their possessions quickly, but after they were done, Javert stood, unmoving, in the middle of the room for a while, eyeing the place with a sort of fondness. He was not a sentimental person in the least, yet he could not help feeling some kind of foolish attachment to the room; to the fireplace by which he and Éponine had spoken on Christmas Eve, to the table they'd dined at, to the chair they'd so often sat in together, to the bed they'd made love in too many times to count.

Éponine noticed his hesitation, and strolled over to where he stood. Then, without uttering a single word, she placed a hand on his shoulder and urged him to turn and look at her. Once he was facing her, she smiled, her eyes gentle and her face glowing, and extended a hand to him. And, after drinking in the sight of the empty space around him one last time, he laced his fingers through hers, and let her guide him toward the future, away from all that he had left behind. He knew he would miss his work, of course, for it had been his life for as long as he could remember, but he knew at that moment that letting her be his life instead would not be miserable at all; that, perhaps, it would be better. When he looked at Éponine he saw hope, the prospect of happiness and love, and it did not cross his mind for even a second not to let her take him away from the past, out of the darkness and into the light.

In silence Javert took her hand, and he followed.

* * *

They settled into their new, peaceful life quickly, and both were certain that they'd never been more content. There were times of great sorrow, of course; times she wept for Gavroche and the students, and times that he lamented the loss of his leg, but there was a great deal more happiness than there was grief, she decided. A month or so passed, and, as Éponine had expected, Javert grew restless quickly, frustrated with the idea that he could not do the job to which he'd been once been so devoted. At the same time, however, he could think of no other job he would be good at, and so he found himself faced with a rather impossible situation: wanting to occupy himself but having no idea how to do so. Éponine, seeing how irritated he seemed, proved to be quite capable of remedying his conundrum, and they both spent those first few months in something like post-matrimonial bliss, talking, playing cards, reading together, and making love often.

Both Éponine and Javert were happy, and neither could remember a time better than the present. They lived in a world of their own, isolated from others, but one day in early September, they were brought out of their seclusion by a curious letter delivered to their home. There was a knock on their front door just as they were finishing their supper, and when Éponine went to pull it open, she found a boy of about thirteen or fourteen standing there before her.

Without bothering to give an introduction, he held an envelope out to her and said, "This is for Monsieur Javert."

Upon looking down and seeing no name written on it, she frowned, "Who is it from?"

"I don't know, mademoiselle. It was sent to the police station, and I was told to bring it to this address."

When the boy held out his hand, she reached into her pocket and dropped a few coins into his palm, "Thank you."

He nodded and hurried away, and she walked back into the house to where Javert sat at the table. She furrowed her brow and handed it to him, "It's for you."

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously and took it into his hands, tearing it open and unfolding the paper. The words scrawled onto it were sloppy, tilted jaggedly to the side, and difficult to read, and he had to squint for a while to make sense of them. The moment he saw the signature below the short message, however, he nearly gaped at the paper before him.

_Javert,_

_I know it is indeed quite odd that I should be writing to you, but I hope this letter finds you well nonetheless. I write to you to tell you that I fear I am dying, and before I pass, I would like to speak with you, if you would permit it. Should you chose to do so, you may find me at the address below. I pray that this letter will reach you before I am gone, for I do believe we have unfinished business. _

_Valjean._

For a while Javert only stared at the letter, as he hadn't the slightest clue what to make of it. The idea itself was ludicrous: that a man who'd been on the run from the law for years would request the presence of the very policeman who had hunted him at his deathbed, and Javert almost scoffed at the man's utter foolishness that had, apparently, remained with him even until the very end. Valjean had written to him almost as though they were old friends when nothing could be further from the truth, and Javert wondered to himself why the old man would even spare a thought for him; his old enemy. What did they have to say to one another, really? The Inspector would not deny that it felt as though he did have unfinished business with Valjean, but he was entirely uncertain whether or not he truly wanted to tie up any lose ends with the man and obtain some kind of closure. No, he decided with a sneer, he did not need closure. Closure was for those who were too weak to simply forget, those who would rather spend their whole lives dwelling on some unresolved nonsense than simply consent to let it go. In all honesty, he would rather forget about Valjean's existence altogether, and it was with that in mind that he scowled and set the paper down on the table. Within moments, Éponine had picked it up and read it as well, and when she was finished, she looked to him with wide eyes.

"Are you going to go?" she asked softly. He lowered his eyes and said nothing, and she walked over beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder gently, "I think you ought to."

"There is no reason for me to go," he rose to his feet and began to clear the table, "Any unfinished business we may have is of little consequence to me now."

"Javert…" she breathed, then set a hand on the plates he was holding and pushed them back down on the table. He ground his teeth together, but made no move to leave as she began to speak, "Go speak with him. If you don't, and he dies…" she sighed, "this whole thing will never be over."

Javert exhaled sharply, but reluctantly decided that she was, as usual, quite right. If this whole dreadful situation with Valjean was not resolved now then it never would be, and, though he thought closure for the weak, he feared it would bother him more in the future than he thought it would now. After thinking over his options for a moment, he eventually stalked over to the door, threw on his coat, then turned to her and asked simply, "Would you like to accompany me?"

Without a word, she gave him a little smile, nodded, and then, after finding her cloak and putting it on, Éponine followed him out the door. They came upon the address after a little while and discovered that it was, of all places, a convent, with high walls surrounding the place and a large iron gate out in front. After explaining who they were there to see, one of the sisters let them inside and guided them down a long corridor, then turned a corner and led them into a small, windowless room illuminated by only a few candles. In a bed off in one of the corners lay the man called Jean Valjean, and for a moment, Éponine only stared at him in astonishment. It seemed as though he'd aged a decade in only a few months, and he looked so frail, so hopeless, so much unlike the strong man she remembered him being at the barricade. She could not fathom what had happened to make him lose his will to live so quickly, and he looked so utterly miserable that it made her want cry just to watch him sit there in silence, his eyes sunken in and dull.

He appeared not to have seen them enter, and so the old nun walked over to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. "You have visitors, monsieur," she told him, and he looked toward the door eagerly, his eyes lighting up all at once. Éponine saw his apparent excitement wilt slightly upon seeing who they were, and she thought to herself that he looked as though he'd been anticipating the arrival of someone else.

The nun walked toward the door, but stopped in front of Javert to utter, "Do not say anything that will upset him. I fear he will not live to see the dawn."

Gravely, Javert nodded comprehension, and he and Éponine advanced toward the side of bed, where Éponine knelt. Since he could not do the same with his wooden leg, Javert pulled up a stool to sit beside the bed, but made sure to keep a fair distance between him and the other man.

A moment passed in uncomfortable silence, and then Valjean spoke up, his voice low and raspy, "Inspector. It is good to see you again."

Disconcerted for some reason by hearing his old title, Javert cleared his throat, "It could be under better circumstances."

"You are indeed right," Valjean agreed, then moved his gaze over to Éponine, "I do not believe we have ever been properly introduced, mademoiselle, though… I know I have seen you before."

Shyly, she nodded and grinned, "I am Éponine."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Éponine," he told her honestly, then, after a minute, looked to Javert once more, "You were walking with a limp when you came in. Have you been hurt?"

Javert shifted slightly, "I was wounded at the barricade. Part of my leg had to be…removed."

Valjean frowned, "That is a pity." Then, he noticed the lack of a uniform on Javert and, knowing that he'd almost always worn it before even when off duty, observed with a hint of inexplicable sorrow in his voice, "You are no longer a policeman."

"No," Javert answered simply with finality in his tone, for he did not wish to speak of it anymore, and the room gave way to a tense silence.

Éponine was the one to end it, and she reached forward to rest one of her hands upon Valjean's, "I want to thank you, monsieur. You saved Javert's life. And I…" she took a breath, "We owe you more than we can ever repay. I don't want to think about what would've happened if you had not."

The older man smiled, the corners of his eye wrinkling up as he did so, "Is he kind to you, mademoiselle?"

She glanced briefly back at Javert, and felt a rush of happiness flood her veins. Then, she looked to Valjean and nodded, "Yes. He is." Once more they lapsed into a dreadful quiet, and she felt, at that moment, the need to leave the two men alone, as she knew they likely had things they should discuss by themselves, without her there to hear them.

"If you'll excuse me, for a moment," she murmured, and, after Valjean nodded and let go of her hand, she got to her feet and took her leave from the room.

Even after she was gone, they did not speak for a while, but eventually Valjean decided that the silence between them simply would not do, "I am glad that you came. I did not think you would."

Javert's tone was clipped, short, "You say we have unfinished business. I came here to resolve it."

"Very well. Then we shall," the other man rasped, "I want to ask for your forgiveness, Javert."

Confused, he looked up at Valjean with a deep scowl, "What are you talking about?"

"I know I have been quite a bother to you for many years," he sighed, "And I hope that you will forgive me for it. I do not want to die knowing there are sins of which I have not been absolved."

Javert froze for a moment, and hadn't even the slightest idea what to say to that. He knew that, deep within him, he was not angry at Valjean because of the trouble he'd caused him; no, he was angry at him for saving his life, for forcing him to acknowledge the possibility that, perhaps, a person could be both a criminal and a saint.

"All right," he muttered tersely, though he was not sure if he meant what he was saying, "I forgive you."

Valjean seemed to realize that Javert was perhaps not being truthful, but did not speak of it and instead said only, "That girl…Éponine. She loves you." Javert eyed him strangely for a moment, and the older man continued, "Do you love her in return?"

Javert cleared his throat, "I do not see how that is any of your concern."

Taking that as a confirmation, Valjean pressed further, "Have you told her?"

There was a pause, but finally, he muttered lowly, "No."

"You ought to," the other man croaked, "I do not remember you ever having a companion all the years we've known one another, and I am happy you are no longer alone." He heaved a sigh, "Not alone…not like I am. My angel, my Cosette…" he closed his eyes, "She is gone. She has wed, and has departed from my life and into another. I know it is what is best. I know she will be happy. But I cannot help but feel as though the only thing I have to live for is gone, and that my life no longer has any meaning." He looked at Javert then, and his eyes locked on the other man's intensely, "Tell the mademoiselle before it is too late, and she is gone. Do not let yourself lose your chance at the greatest happiness you may ever know."

They fell victim to silence for what seemed to be the hundredth time in five minutes, and Javert realized then, that they had no more to say to one another, that the only thing he had left to do now was bid Valjean farewell and leave him behind, to move away from the man who embodied his past and toward his future.

Javert got to his feet and clasped his hands behind his back, then told him tensely, "I must be on my way."

Valjean closed his eyes but made no attempt to stop Javert, for he, too, knew that they had no more to say to one another, "Goodbye, Javert. I do not believe…that we will see one another again."

Clenching his jaw and feeling some kind of twisted pity for the man welling up inside him, Javert took one last look at Valjean and then turned, making his way slowly out the door and finding Éponine standing there, waiting for him. She did not ask what the two had said to one another; somehow, she knew that it was to be kept between them and between them only. She was curious, of course, but she did not inquire about it and held her tongue as they walked out of the convent and returned to their little home together. As they turned a corner and vanished into an alleyway, however, Éponine bowed her head for a moment and murmured a prayer for the man called Jean Valjean. In her eyes, he was a saint who had spared the life of the man she loved, and Éponine thought, then, that perhaps no amount of prayers would ever be enough to thank him properly.

* * *

It was a few hours after dawn in the depths of a frigid January four months later, and Javert awoke to the smell of food wafting into the small bedroom from the kitchen. He looked to his side and found Éponine was not there, but when he decided to get to his feet and dress himself in order to look for her, he discovered that his wooden leg was not where he remembered putting it the night before, when he'd taken it off. Confused as to where it could be but largely unable to search for it by himself, he growled in frustration under his breath and called out, "Éponine!"

"What?" she yelled back from the other room.

He let out an angry breath, feeling utterly foolish when he told her, "I've lost my leg."

He heard her laugh loudly, and after a moment she sauntered into the bedroom, rolling her eyes playfully at him, "I cannot imagine how you've managed to do that." She sighed, "Where did you put it last night?"

"By the bedside table," he grunted. Éponine thought for a moment, considered getting on her hands and knees to look under the bed, but ultimately decided against it.

"Come on. I'll help you to the kitchen and find it later."

He shook his head and frowned, "That is absurd. You cannot support my weight; both of us will fall over."

"No we won't," she chirped confidently, then helped him to his feet and placed a hand behind his back to support him as best she could. It was not easy in the least, but they managed to hobble together across the room, and reached the door after a few moments.

When Javert glanced sideways at her and noticed how much she was struggling to help him, his frown became even deeper, the edges of his face darker, "This is not right."

Éponine raised an eyebrow, "What?"

"You are young," he hissed under his breath, feeling something he thought felt like guilt – for holding her back, from keeping her from enjoying her youth as she should be doing. Angry with himself for a reason he could not fully understand, he exhaled sharply, "You should not be spending your days helping an old invalid about his home."

She chuckled lowly, and thought to herself just how ridiculous the notion of leaving him seemed to her, now, "If I wanted to leave I would've left a long time ago." Then, she turned her head to look at him as well and smiled, "I'm still here, aren't I?"

Put at ease by her answer, he stayed silent as they made their way out into the hallway and began to walk toward the kitchen. They reached their destination relatively quickly, but as they opened the door and walked inside, Éponine happened to bump into one of the countertops and lose her footing. As soon as she did, he lost his as well, and in seconds they'd landed together on the floor with a loud thud that made the plates on the table rattle. Neither of them had been hurt, however, and instead of being annoyed by the fall, Éponine found it quite hilarious and let out a loud laugh.

Javert was not nearly as amused, and deadpanned, "I told you this would happen."

She laughed again, then propped herself up on her elbows and looked over at him with another snicker, "I know. And I didn't listen! Here," she held out a hand to him with a wide grin that showed all of her teeth, "Take my hand. I'll help you up."

At that moment, out of nowhere, as Javert watched her laugh and felt the touch of her hand to his, he knew without a doubt in his mind that he loved her. He should've told her months ago, for he knew he had back then, but had been too much of a coward and a fool to tell her. He recalled for a moment the words of Mirela, when she had read his palm and encouraged him not to push any love he found away, and, reluctantly, he recalled the words of Jean Valjean as well, reminding him not to waste what was almost certainly going to be his only chance at happiness. Javert did not think he could withstand another waking moment without Éponine knowing that he loved her, and so, when she began to get to her feet to help him up, he pulled her back down to him without a word so that she was hovering over him, her hands placed on the ground beside his shoulders, her lips parted slightly in surprise.

Without allowing his mouth to stay closed for another second, he spoke, and when he did, the words sounded foreign – as though he was speaking in tongues, in a language he did not understand. He said the words steadily, almost without a hint of emotion, his voice low and deep like it always was, but the fact that he did not show emotion was not to say that he did not feel it, "I love you."

Struck completely speechless, Éponine only stared at him for a long moment, and then bit her lip as she felt tears began to creep into the corners of her eyes. She'd waited so long to hear him speak those words, and now that he had, she could scarcely believe it, could hardly comprehend the blessed sentence as it met her ears.

"You said it," she breathed after a moment, a huge grin breaking out onto her face. She laughed through her happy tears and nestled her face into the crook of his neck, barely able to talk, "I-I thought you never would." She sniffled and brushed the tears out of her eyes, "I love you too."

Overjoyed and hardly able to contain her glee, she helped him up after a moment and led him over to one of the chairs at the kitchen table. Then, after doing that, she strolled off into the bedroom in search of his missing leg. After getting down on her hands and knees and finding that it'd slipped underneath the bed, she retrieved it and returned proudly to the kitchen, holding it out to him with a chuckle, "Here. I found it."

After he'd put the thing back on, he rose to stand immediately, then, almost without thinking, pulled her into him once again, "Marry me."

For the second time in hardly five minutes she was too surprised to speak, but after a moment, her mind returned to her, and her common sense kicked in once more. She smiled, and for a moment Javert was certain she would say yes, but he found himself quite taken aback when she shook her head and laughed, "No." Though he did not want to appear affected by her refusal, Javert deflated somewhat at that moment, and so she took his hands in hers to reassure him, "And it's not that I don't love you, or want to spend the years with you – because I do. But wife is such an ugly title." She made a mock grimace, and then told him softly, "I don't want to be your _wife_."

With a little smile, Éponine leaned her forehead against Javert's chin, and murmured, "I'd much rather just be yours."

* * *

_**FIN.**_


End file.
